Full text of "Tales of Unrest"

See other formats

Google

This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on Hbrary shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project

to make the world's books discoverable online.

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the

publisher to a library and finally to you.

Usage guidelines

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing this resource, we liave taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for informing people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe.

About Google Book Search

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web

at |http : //books . google . com/|

^F"^^

^^^

w^m

^==^^"^*"

9i«is:

SI z

/Wo

^^.Z

Books by thb Same Author

AUCATBR B FOLLT

AN OUTGABT OF THE laLANM

CHANCE

FALK AND OTBHB STOBIHB

liORD jui: a bomance

IfntBOB OF THB BEA, THB

nigoeb of thb nabcibsub, thb

nobtboho: a talb of the beaboabd

pebbonal bbcobd, a

becbet agent, the

set of six, a

taleb of unbebt

'twixt land and SBA

TYPHOON

X7NDEB WBBTBBN BTHS

VICTOBT

WITHIN THB TIDBB

YOUTH : A NABBATITB

WITH FORD M. HUEPFER

INREBITOBS, THE: AN EZTBAYAOANT BTOBT
BOMANCB: a NOVEL

TALES OF
UNREST

«fc» ^ .«^*

By JOSEPH CONRAD

««

Be it thy course to being giddy mindt
With foreign quarrels.*'

— SRAKESPEAm

OABDEK CITY HBW TOBX

DOUBLEDAY, PAGB & COMPANY

1920

AU fights resented^ including thai of

trtmsUtion into foreign language j,

influding the Scandinaoian

ADOLF F. KFIMGEM
mm THE SAXM OF OLD UM¥9

4 ■ ' ' • ' K

CONTENTS

Karain : a Memory /

The Idiots gi

An Outpost of Progress §4)

The Return tgg

Tbe Lagoon » • • • • ^ty

Karain: a Memory

"ll/E knew him in those unprotected days
when we were content to hold in our
hands our lives and our property. None of
us, I believe, has any property now, and I
hear that many, negligently, have lost their
lives; but I am sure that the few who sur-
vive are not yet so dim-eyed as to miss in
the befogged respectability of their news-
papers the intelligence of various native
risings in the Eastern Archipelago. Sun-
shine gleams between the lines of those
short paragraphs — sunshine and the glitter
of the sea. A strange name wakes up mem-
ories; the printed words scent the smoky
atmosphere of to-day faintly, with the
subtle and penetrating perfume as of land
breezes breathing through the starlight of
bygone nights; a signal fire gleams like a

Tales of Unrest

jewel on the high brow of a sombre cliff;
great trees, the advanced sentries of im-
mense forests, stand watchful and still over
sleeping stretches of open water; a line of
white surf thunders on an empty beach, the
shallow water foams on the reefs; and
g^een islets scattered through the calm of
noonday lie upon the level of a polished
sea, like a handful of emeralds on a buckler
of steel.

There are faces too-— faces dark, trucu-
lent, and smiling; the frank audacious
faces of men barefooted, well armed and
noiseless. They thronged the narrow
length of our schooner's decks with their
ornamented and barbarous crowd, with the
variegated colours of checkered sarongs,
red turbans, white jackets, embroideries;
with the gleam of scabbards, gold rings,
charms, armlets, lance blades, and jewelled
handles of their weapons. They had an
independent bearing, resolute eyes, a re-
strained manner; and we seem yet to hear
their soft voices speaking of battles, travels,
and escapes; boasting with composure, jok-
ing quietly; sometimes in well-bred mur-

Karain: a Memory

murs extolling their own valour, our gen-
erosity; or celebrating with loyal enthu-
siasm the virtues of their ruler. We re-
member the faces, the eyes, the voices, we
see again the gleam of silk and metal; the
murmuring stir of that crowd, brilliant, fes-
tive, and martial ; and we seem to feel the
touch of friendly brown hands that, after
one short grasp, return to rest on a chased
hilt. They were Karain's people — ^a de-
voted following. Their movements hung
on his lips; they read their thoughts in his
eyes; he murmured to them nonchalantly
of life and death, and they accepted his
words humbly, like gifts of fate. They were
all free men, and when speaking to him said,
" Your slave." On his passage voices died
out as though he had walked guarded by
silence; awed whispers followed him. They
called him their war-chief. He was the
ruler of three villages on a narrow plain;
the master of an insignificant foothold on
the earth— of a conquered foothold that^
shaped like a young moon, lay ignored be-
tween the hills and the sea.
From the deck of our schooner, ancfaoredl

Talcs of Unrest

in the middle of the bay, he indicated by a
theatrical sweep of 'his arm along the jag*
ged outline of the hills the whole of his do-
main; and the ample movement seemed to
drive back its limits, augmenting it sud-
denly into something so immense and
vague that for a moment it appeared to be
bounded only by the sky. And really, look-
ing at that place, landlocked from the sea
and shut off from the land by the precipit-
ous slopes of mountains, it was difficult to
believe in the existence of any neighbour-
hood. It was still, complete, unknown, and
full of a life that went on stealthily with a
troubling e£Fect of solitude; of a life that
seemed unaccountably empty of an3rthing
that would stir the thought, touch the heart,
give a hint of the ominous sequence of days.
It appeared to us a land without memories,
regrets, and hopes; a land where nothing
could survive the coming of the night, andt
where each sunrise, like a dazzling act of
special creation, was disconnected from the
eve and the morrow.

Karain swept his hand over it. " All
mine I " He struck the deck with his long

Karain: a Memory

staff; the gold head flashed like a falling
star; very close behind him a silent old fel-
low in a richly embroidered black jacket
alone of all the Malays around did not fol-
low the masterful gesture with a look. He
did not even lift his eyelids. He bowed his
head behind his master, and without stir-
ring held hilt up over his right shoulder a
long blade in a silver scabbard. He was
there on duty, but without curiosity, and
seemed weary, not with age, but with the
possession of a burdensome secriet of exist-
ence. Klarain, heavy and proud, had a lofty
pose and breathed calmly. It was our first
visit, and we looked about curiously.

The bay was like a bottomless pit of in-
tense light. The circular sheet of water re-
flected a luminous sky, and the shores en-
closing it made an opaque ring of earth
floating in an emptiness of transparent blue.
The hills, purple and arid, stood out heavily
on the sky: their summits seemed to fade
into a coloured tremble as of ascending
vapour; their steep sides were streaked
with the green of narrow ravines; at their
foot lay rice-fields, plantain-patches, yellow

Talcs of Unrest

sands. A torrent wound about like a
dropped thread. Clumps of fruit-trees
marked the villages; slim palms put their
nodding heads together above the low
houses; dried palm-leaf roofs shone afar,
like roofs of gold, behind the dark colon-
nades of tree-trunks; figures passed vivid
and vanishing; the smoke of fires stood
upright above the masses of flowering
bushes; .bamboo fences glittered, running
away in broken lines between the fields. A
sudden cry on the shore sounded plaintive
in the distance, and ceased abruptly, as if
stifled in the downpour of sunshine; a puff
of breeze made a flash of darkness on the
smooth water, touched our faces, and be-
came forgotten. Nothing moved. The sun
blazed down into a shadowless hollow of
colours and stillness.

It was the stage where, dressed splen-
didly for his part, he strutted, incomparably
dignified, made important by the power he
had to awaken an absurd expectation of
something heroic going to take place — a
burst of action or song — ^upon the vibrat-
ing tone of a wonderful sunshine. He was

Karain: a Memory

ornate and disturbing, for one could not im-
agine what depth of horrible void such an
elaborate front could be worthy to hide. He
was not masked — ^there was too much life
in him, and a mask is only a lifeless thing;
but he presented himself essentially as an
actor, as a human being aggressively dis-
guised. His smallest acts were prepared
and unexpected, his speeches grave, his
sentences ominous like hints and compli-
cated like arabesques. He was treated with
a solemn respect accorded in the irreverent
West only to the monarchs of the stage, and
he accepted the profound homage with a
sustained dignity seen nowhere else but be-
hind the footlights and in the condensed
falseness of some grossly tragic situation.
It was almost impossible to remember who
he was— only a petty chief of a conven-
iently isolated comer of Mindanao, where
we could in comparative safety break the
law against the traffic in firearms and ammu-
nition with the natives. What would hap-
pen should one of the moribund Spanish
gun- boats be suddenly galvanised into a
flicker of active life did not trouble us, once

Tales of Unrest

we were inside the bay^-so completely did
it appear out of the reach of a meddling
world; and besides, in those days we were
imaginative enough to look with a kind of
joyous equanimity on any chance there was
of being quietly hanged somewhere out of
the way of diplomatic remonstrance. As to
Karain, nothing could happen to him un-
less what happens to all — ^failure and death ;
but his quality was to appear clothed in the
illusion of unavoidable success. He seemed
too effective, too necessary there, too much
of an essential condition for the existence
of his land and his people, to be destroyed
by anything short of an earthquake. He
summed up his race, his country, the ele-
mental force of ardent life, of tropical nat-
ure. He had its luxuriant strength, its fas-
cination ; and, like it, he carried the seed of
peril within.

In many successive visits we came to
know his stage well — ^the purple semicircle
of hills, the slim trees leaning over houses,
the yellow sands, the streaming green of
ravines. All that had the crude and blended
colouring, the appropriateness almost ex*

Karain: a Memoiy

cessive, the suspicious immobility of a
painted scene; and it enclosed so perfectly
the accomplished acting of his amazing pre-
tences that the rest of the world seemed
shut out for ever from the gorgeous spec-
tacle. There could be nothing outside* It
was as if the earth had gone on spinning,
and had left that crumb of its surface alone
in space. He appeared utterly cut off from
everything but the sunshine, and that even
seemed to be made for him alone. Once
when asked what was on the other side of
the hills, he said, with a meaning smile,
" Friends and enemies — ^many enemies ;
else why should I buy your rifles and pow-
der? " He was always like this — ^word-per-
fect in his part, playing up faithfully to the
mysteries and certitudes of his surround-
ings. " Friends and enemies '* — ^nothing
else. It was impalpable and vast. The
earth had indeed rolled away from under
his land, and he, with his handful of people,
stood surrounded by a silent tumult as of
contending shades. Certainly no sound
came from outside. "Friends and cne-
nuesl ** He might have added, " and mem*

Talcs of Unrest

ones/' at least as far as he himself was con-
cerned; but he neglected to make that
point then. It made itself later on, though ;
but it was after the daily performance — ^in
the wingSy so to speak, and with the lights
out. Meantime he filled the stage with bar-
barous dignity. Some ten years ago he had
Icl his people — a scratch lot of wandering
Bugis — ^to the conquest of the bay, and now
in his august care they had forgotten all the
past, and had lost all concern for the future.
He gave them wisdom, advice, reward,
punishment, life or death, with the same
serenity of attitude and voice. He under-
stood irrigation and the art of war — ^the
qualities of weapons and the craft of boat-
building. He could conceal his heart; had
more endurance; he could swim longer,
and steer a canoe better than any of his peo-
ple; he could shoot straighter, and negoti-
ate more tortuously than any man of his
race I knew. He was an adventurer of the
sea, an outcast, a ruler — and my very good
friend. I wish him a quick death in a stand-
up fight, a death in sunshine; for he had
•known remorse and power, and no man can

Karain: a Memory

jdemand more from life. Day after day he
appeared before us, incomparably faithful
to the illusions of the stage, and at sunset
the night descended upon him quickly, like
a falling curtain. The seamed hills became
black shadows towering high upon a clear
sky; above them the glittering confusion of
stars resembled a mad turmoil stilled by a
gesture; sounds ceased, men slept, forms
vanished — and the reality of the universe
alone remained — z, marvellous thing of
darkness and glimmers.

But it was at night that he talked openly,
forgetting the exactions of his stage. In
the daytime there were affairs to be dis-
cussed in state. There were at first between
him and me his own splendour, my shabby
suspidiotis,and the scenic landscape, that in-
truded upon the reality of our lives by its
motionless fantasy of outline and colour.
His followers thronged round him; above
his head the broad blades of their spears
made a spiked halo of iron points, and they
hedged him from humanity by the shimmer
of silks, the gleam of weapons, the excited
and respectful hum of eager voices. Be-
fore sunset he would take leave with cere-
mony, and go off sitting under a red um-
brella, and escorted by a score of boats. All
the paddles flashed and struck together
with a mighty splash that reverberated
loudly in the monumental amphitheatre of
hills. A broad stream of dazzling foam

Karain: a Memory

trailed behind the flotilla. The canoes ap-
peared very black on the white hiss of
water; turbaned heads swayed back and
forth; a multitude of arms in crimson and
yellow rose and fell with one movement;
the spearmen upright in the bows of canoes
had variegated sarongs and gleaming shoul-
ders like bronze statues; the muttered
strophes of the paddlers' song ended peri-
odically in a plaintive shout. They dimin-
ished in the distance; the song ceased;
they swarmed on the beach in the long-
shadows of the western hills. The sunlight
lingered on the purple crests, and we could
see him leading the way to his stockade, a
burly bareheaded figure walking far in ad-
vance of a straggling cortege, and swinging
regularly an ebony staff taller than him-
self. The darkness deepened fast; torches
gleamed fitfully, passing behind bushes; a
long hail or two trailed in the silence of the
evening; and at last the night stretched its
smooth veil over the shore, the lights, and
the voices.

Then, just as we were thinking of repose,
the watchmen of the schooner would hail a

Tales of Unrest

splash of paddles away in the starlit gloom
of the bay; a voice would respond in cau-
tious tones, and our serang, putting his
head down the open skylight, would inform
us without surprise, " That Rajah, he com-
ing. He here now." Karain appeared
noiselessly in the doorway of the little cabin.
He was simplicity itself then; all in white;
mufHed about his head; for arms only a
kriss with a plain buffalo-horn handle,
which he would politely conceal within a
fold of his sarong before stepping over the
threshold. The old sword-bearer's face, the
worn-out and mournful face so covered
with wrinkles that it seemed to look out
through the meshes of a fine dark net,
could be seen close above his shoulder. Ka-
rain never moved without that attendant,
who stood or squatted close at his back. He
had a dislike of an open space behind him.
It was more than a dislike — it resembled
fear, a nervous preoccupation of what went
on where he could not see. This, in view
of the evident and fierce loyalty that sur-
rounded him, was inexplicable. He was
there alone in the midst of devoted men;

Karain: a Memory

he was safe from neighbourly ambushes,
from fraternal ambitions; and yet more
than one of our visitors had assured us that
their ruler could not bear to be alone. They
said, " Even when he eats and sleeps there
is always one on the watch near him who
has strength and weapons." There was in-
deed always one near him, though our in-
formants had no conception of that watch-
er's strength and weapons, which were both
shadowy and terrible. We knew, but only
later on, when we had heard the story.
Meantime we noticed that, even during the
most important interviews, Karain would
often give a start, and interrupting his dis-
course, would sweep his arm back with a
sudden movement, to feel whether the old
fellow was there. The old fellow, impene-
trable and weary, was always there. He
shared . his food, his repose, and his
thoughts; he knew his plans, guarded his
secrets ; and, impassive behind his master's
agitation, without stirring the least bit,
murmured above his head in a soothing
tone some words difficult to catch.

It was only on board the schooner, when

a 17

Tales of Unrest

surrounded by white faces, by unfamiliar
sights and sounds, that Karain seemed to
forget the strange obsession that wound
Uke a black thread through the gorgeous
pomp of his public life. At night we treated
him in a free and easy manner, which just
stopped short of slapping him on the back,
for there are liberties one must not take
with a Malay. He said himself that on such
occasions he was only a private gentleman
coming to see other gentlemen whom he
supposed as well bom as himself. I fancy
that to the last he believed us to be emis-
saries of Government, darkly official per-
sons furthering by our illegal traffic some
dark scheme of high statecraft. Our de-
nials and protestations were unavailing.
He only smiled with discreet politeness and
inquired about the Queen. Every visit be-
gan with that inquiry; he was insatiable of
details ; he was fascinated by the holder of
a sceptre the shadow of which, stretching
from the westward over the earth and over
the seas, passed far beyond his own hand's-
breadth of conquered land. He multiplied
questions ; he could never know enough of

Karain: a Memory

the Monarch of whom he spoke with won-
der and chivalrous respect — ^with a kind of
affectionate awe! Afterwards, when we had
learned that he was the son of a woman
who had many years ago ruled a small
Bugis state, we came to suspect that the
memory of his mother (of whom he spoke
with enthusiasm) mingled somehow in his
mind with th^ image he tried to form for
himself of the far-off Queen whom he called
Great, Invincible, Pious, and Fortunate.
We had to invent details at last to satisfy
his craving curiosity; and our loyalty must
be pardoned, for we tried to make them fit
for his august and resplendent ideal. We
talked. The night slipped over us, over the
still schooner, over the sleeping land, and
over the sleepless sea that thundered
amongst the reefs outside the bay. His
paddlers, two trustworthy men, slept in the
canoe at the foot of our side-ladder. The
old confidant, relieved from duty, dozed on
his heels, with his back against the com-
panion-doorway; and Karain sat squarely
in the ship's wooden armchair, under the
slight sway of the cabin lamp, a cheroot

Talcs of Unrest

between his dark fingers, and a glass of
lemonade before him. He was amused by
the fizz of the thing, but after a sip or two
would let it get flat, and with a courteous
wave of his hand ask for a fresh bottle. He
decimated our slender stock; but we did
not begrudge it to him, for, when he began,
he talked well. He must have been a great
Bugis dandy in his time, for even then (and
when we knew him he was no longer
young) his splendour was spotlessly neat,
and he dyed his hair a light shade of brown.
The quiet dignity of his bearing trans-
formed the dim-lit cuddy of the schooner
into an audience-hall. He talked of inter-
island politics with an ironic and melan-
choly shrewdness. He had travelled much,
suffered not a little, intrigued, fought. He
knew native Courts, European Settlements,
the forests, the sea, and, as he said himself,
had spoken in his time to many g^eat men.
He liked to talk with me because I had
known some of these men: he seemed to
think that I could understand him, and,
with a fine confidence, assumed that I, at
leasts could appreciate how much greater

Karain: a Memory

he was himself. But he preferred to talk
of his native country — sl small Bugis state
on the island of Celebes. I had visited it
some time before, and he asked eagerly for
news. As men's names came up in conver-
sation he would say, " We swam against
one another when we were boys; " or, " We
had hunted the deer together — ^he could use
the noose and the spear as well as I." Now
and then his big dreamy eyes would roll
restlessly; he frowned or smiled, or he
would become pensive, and, staring in si-
lence, would nod slightly for a time at some
regretted vision of the past.

His mother had been the ruler of a small
semi-independent state on the sea-coast at
the head of the Gulf of Boni. He spoke of
her with pride. She had been a woman reso-
lute in affairs of state and of her own heart.
After the death of her first husband, un-
dismayed by the turbulent opposition of the
chiefs, she married a rich trader, a Korinchi
man of no family. Karain was her son by
that second marriage, but his unfortunate
descent had apparently nothing to do with
his exile. He said nothing as to its cause,

Tales of Unrest

though once he let slip with a sigh, " Ha!
my land will not feel any more the weight
of my body." But he related willingly the
story of his wanderings, and told us all
about the conquest of the bay. Alluding to
the people beyond the hills, he would mur-
mur gently, with a careless wave of the
hand, " They came over the hills once to
fight us, but those who got away never
came again." He thought for a while, smil-
ing to himself. " Very few got away," he
added, with proud serenity. He cherished
the recollections of his successes; he had
an exulting eagerness for endeavour; when
he talked, his aspect was warlike, chival-
rous, and uplifting. No wonder his people
admired him. We saw him once walking
in daylight amongst the houses of the set-
tlement. At the doors of huts groups of
women turned to look after him, warbling
softly, and with gleaming eyes; armed men
stood out of the way, submissive and erect;
others approached from the side, bending
their backs to address him humbly; an old
woman stretched out a draped lean arm —
on thy head! " she cried from a

Karain: a Memory

dark doorway; a fiery-eyed man showed
above the low fence of a plantain-patch a
streaming face, a bare breast scarred tn two
places, and bellowed out pantingly after
him, " God give victory to our master! "
Karain walked fast, and with firm long
strides; he answered greetings right and
left by quick piercing glances. Children
ran forward between the houses, peeped
fearfully round comers; young boys kept
up with him, gliding between bushes: their
eyes gleamed through the dark leaves. The
old sword-bearer, shouldering the silver
scabbard, shuffled hastily at his heels with
bowed head, and his eyes on the ground.
And in the midst of a great stir they passed
swift and absorbed, like two men hurrying
through a great solitude.

In his council hall he was surrounded by
the gravity of armed chiefs, while two long
rows of old headmen dressed in cotton
stuffs squatted on their heels, with idle
arms hanging over their knees. Under the
thatch roof supported by smooth columns,
of which each one had cost the life of a
straight-stemmed young palm, the scent of

Talcs of Unrest

flowering hedges drifted in warm waves.
The sun was sinking. In the open court-
yard suppliants walked through the gate,
raising, when yet far off, their joined hands
above bowed heads, and bending low in the
bright stream of sunlight. Young girls,
with flowers in their laps, sat under the
wide-spreading boughs of a big tree. The
blue smoke of wood fires spread in a thin
mist above the high-pitched roofs of houses
that had glistening walls of woven reeds,
and all round them rough wooden pillars
under the sloping eaves. He dispensed jus-
tice in the shade; from a high seat he gave
orders, advice, reproof. Now and then the
hum of approbation rose louder, and idle
spearmen that lounged listlessly against the
posts, looking at the girls, would turn their
heads slowly. To no man had been given
the shelter of so much respect, confidence,
and awe. Yet at times he would lean for-
word and appear to listen as for a far-off
note of discord, as if expecting to hear some
faint voice, the sound of light footsteps; of
he would start half up in his seat, as though
he had been familiarly touched on the shoul-

Karain : a Memory

der. He glanced back with apprehension;
his aged follower whispered inaudibly at his
ear; the chiefs turned their eyes away in si-
lence, for the old wizard, the man who could
command ghosts and send evil spirits
against enemies, was speaking low to their
ruler. Around the short stillness of the
open place the trees rustled faintly, the soft
laughter of girls playing with the flowers
rose in clear bursts of joyous sound. At the
end of upright spear-shafts the long tufts of
dyed horse-hair waved crimson and filmy
in the gust of wind; and beyond the blaze
of hedges the brook of limpid quick water
ran invisible and loud under the drooping
grass of the bank, with a great murmur,
passionate and gentle.

After sunset, far across the fields and over
the bay, clusters of torches could be seen
burning under the high roofs of the council
shed. Smoky red flames swayed on high
poles, and the fiery blaze flickered over faces,
clung to the smooth trunks of palm-trees,
kindled bright sparks on the rims of metal
dishes standing on fine fioor-mats. That
obscure adventurer feasted like a king.

Tales of Unrest

Small groups of men crouched in tight cir-
cles round the wooden platters; brown
hands hovered over snowy heaps of rice.
Sitting upon a rough couch apart from the
others, he leaned on his elbow with inclined
head; and near him a youth improvised in
a high tone a song that celebrated his
valour and wisdom. The singer rocked
himself to and fro, rolling frenzied eyes; old
women hobbled about with dishes, and men,
squatting low, lifted their heads to listen
gravely without ceasing to eat The song
of triumph vibrated in the night, and the
stanzas rolled out mournful and fiery like
the thoughts of a hermit. He silenced it
with a sign, " Enough! " An owl hooted
far away, exulting in the delight of deep
gloom in dense foliage; overhead lizards
ran in the attap thatch, calling softly; the
dry leaves of the roof rustled; the rumour
of mingled voices grew louder suddenly.
After a circular and startled glance, as of a
man waking up abruptly to the sense of
danger, he would throw himself back, and
under the downward gaze of the old sor-
cerer take up, wide-eyed, the slender thread

Karain: a Memory

of his dream. They watched his moods;
the swelling rumour of animated talk sub-
sided like a wave on a sloping beach. The
chief is pensive. And above the spreading
whisper of lowered voices only a light rat-
tle of weapons would be heard, a single
louder word distinct and alone, or the grave
ring of a big brass tray.

«j

Ill

For two years at short intervals we
visited him. We came to like him, to trust
him, almost to admire him. He was plot-
ting and preparing a war with patience,
with foresight — ^with a fidelity to his pur-
pose and with a steadfastness of which I
would have thought him racially incapa-
ble. He seemed fearless of the future, and
in his plans displayed a sagacity that was
only limited by his profound ignorance of
the rest of the world. We tried to enlighten
him, but our attempts to make clear the ir-
resistible nature of the forces which he de-
sired to arrest failed to discourage his
eagerness to strike a blow for his own prim-
itive ideas. He did not understand us, and
replied by arguments that almost drove one
to desperation by their childish shrewdness.
He was absurd and unanswerable. Some-
times we caught glimpses of a sombre,

Karain: a Memory

glowing fury within him — a brooding and
vague sense of wrong, and a concentrated
lust of violence which is dangerous in a na-
tive. He raved like one inspired. On one
occasion, after we had been talking to him
late in his campong, he jumped up. A
great, clear fire blazed in the grove; lights
and shadows danced together between the
trees; in the still night bats flitted in and
out of the boughs like fluttering flakes of
denser darkness. He snatched the sword
from the old man, whizzed it out of the
scabbard, and thrust the point into the
earth. Upon the thin, upright blade the
silver hilt, released, swayed before him like
something alive. He stepped back a pace,
and in a deadened tone spoke fiercely to the
vibrating steel: "If there is virtue in the
fire, in the iron, in the hand that forged
thee, in the words spoken over thee, in the
desire of my heart, and in the wisdom of
thy makers, — ^then we shall be victorious
together! " He drew it out, looked along
the edge. " Take," he said over his shoul-
der to the old sword-bearer. The other,
unmoved on his hams, wiped the point with

Talcs of Unrest

a corner of his sarong, and returning the
weapon to its scabbard, sat nursing it on
his knees without a single look upwards.
Karain, suddenly very calm, reseated him-
self with dignity. We gave up remonstrat-
ing after this, and let him go his way to an
honourable disaster. All we could do for
him was to see to it that the powder was
good for the money and the rifles service-
able, if old.

But the game was becoming at last too
dangerous; and if we, who had faced it
pretty often, thought little of the danger, it
was decided for us by some very respecta-
ble people sitting safely in counting-houses
that the risks were too great, and that only
one more trip could be made. After giving
in the usual way many misleading hints as
to our destination, we slipped away quietly,
and after a very quick passage entered the
bay. It was early morning, and even be-
fore the anchor went to the bottom the
schooner was surrounded by boats.

The first thing we heard was that Ka-
rain's mysterious sword-bearer had died a
few days ago. We did not attach much im-

Karain: a Memory

pcMtance to the news. It was certainly dif-
ficult to imagine Karain without his insep-
arable follower; but the fellow was old, he
had never spoken to one of us, we hardly
ever had heard the sound of his voice; and
we hi(d come to look upon him as upon
something inanimate, as a part of our
friend's trappings of state — ^like that sword
he had carried, or the fringed red umbrella
displayed during an official progress. Ka-
rain did not visit us in the afternoon as
usual. A message of greeting and a present
of fruit and vegetables came off for us be-
fore sunset. Our friend paid us like a
banker, but treated us like a prince. We
sat up for him till midnight. Under the
stem awning bearded Jackson jingled an
old guitar and sang, with an execrable ac-
cent, Spanish love-songs; while young
HoUis and I, sprawling on the deck, had a
game of chess by the light of a cargo lan-
tern. Karain did not appear. Next day we
were busy unloading, and heard that the
Rajah was unwell. The expected invita-
tion to visit him ashore did not come. We
sent friendly messages, but, fearing to in-

Talcs of Unrest

trude upon some secret council, remained
on board. Early pn the third day we had
landed all the powder and rifles, and also a
six-pounder brass gun with its carriage,
which we had subscribed together for a
present to our friend. The afternoon was
sultry. Ragged edges of black clouds
peeped over the hills, and invisible thunder*
storms circled outside, growling like wild
beasts. We got the schooner ready for sea,
intending to leave next morning at day-
light. All day a merciless sun blazed down
into the bay, fierce and pale, as if at white
heat. Nothing moved on the land. The
beach was empty, the villages seemed de-
serted; the trees far off stood in unstirring
clumps, as if painted; the white smoke of
some invisible bush-fire spread itself low
over the shores of the bay like a settling
fog. Late in the day three of Karain's chief
men, dressed in their best and armed to the
teeth, came off in a canoe, bringing a case
of dollars. They were gloomy and languid,
and told us they had not seen their Rajah
for five days. No one had seen him! We
settled all accounts, and after shaking hands

Karain: a Memory

in turn and in profound silence, they de-
scended one after another into their boat,
and were paddled to the shore, sitting close
together, clad in vivid colours, with hang-
ing heads: the gold embroideries of their
jackets flashed dazzlingly as they went
away gliding on the smooth water, and not
one of them looked back once. Before sun-
set the growling clouds carried with a rush
the ridge of hills, and came tumbling down
the inner slopes. Everything disappeared;
Dlack whirling vapours filled the bay, and
in the midst of them the schooner swung
here and there in the shifting gusts of wind.
A single clap of thunder detonated in the
hollow with a violence that seemed capable
of bursting into small pieces the ring of
high land, and a warm deluge descended.
The wind died out. We panted in the close
cabin; our faces streamed; the bay outside
hissed as if boiling; the water fell in per-
pendicular shafts as heavy as lead; it
swished about the deck, poured off the
spars, gurgled, sobbed, splashed, mur-
mured in the blind night. Our lamp burned
low. Hollis, stripped to the waist, lay
3 33

Tales of Unrest

stretched out on the lockers, with closed
eyes and motionless like a despoiled corpse;
at his head Jackson twanged the guitar, and
gasped out in sighs a mournful dirge about
hopeles3 love and eyes like stars. Then we
heard startled voices on deck crying in the
rain, hurried footsteps overhead, and sud-
denly Karain appeared in the doorway of
the cabin. His bare breast and his face
glistened in the light; his sarong, soaked,
clung about his legs; he had his sheathed
kriss in his left hand; and wisps of wet hair,
escaping from under his red kerchief, stuck
over his eyes and down his cheeks. He
stepped in with a headlong stride and look-
ing over his shoulder like a man pursued.
' Hollis turned on his side quickly and
opened his eyes. Jackson clapped his big
hand over the strings and the jingling vi-
bration died suddenly. I stood up.

"We did not hear your boat's hail! " I
exclaimed.

"Boat! The man's swum off," drawled
out Hollis from the locker. " Look at
him!"

He breathed heavily, wild-eyed, while we

Karain: a Memory

looked at him in silence. Water dripped
from him, made a dark pool, and ran
crookedly across the cabin floor. We could
hear Jackson, who had gone out to drive
away our Malay seamen from the doorway
of the companion; he swore menacingly in
the patter of a heavy shower and there was
a great commotion on deck. The watch-
men, scared out of their wits by the glimpse
of a shadowy figure leaping over the rail,
straight out of the night as it were, had
alarmed all hands.

Then Jackson, with glittering drops of
water on his hair and beard, came back
looking angry, and Hollis, who, being the
youngest of us, assumed an indolent superi-
ority, said without stirring, " Give him a
dry sarong — pve him mine; it's hanging
up in the bathroom." Karain laid the kriss
on the table, hilt inwards, and murmured a
few words in a strangled voice.

" What's that? " asked Hollis, who had
not heard.

"He apologises for coming in with a
weapon in his hand," I said, dazedly.

" Ceremonious beggar. Tell him we for-

Talcs of Unrest

give a friend ... on such a night,**
drawled out HolHs. " What's wrong? ''

Karain slipped the dry sarong over his
head, dropped the wet one at his feet, and
stepped out of it. I pointed to the wooden
armchair — ^his armchair. He sat down very
straight, said " Hal " in a strong voice; a
short shiver shook his broad frame. He
looked over his shoulder uneasily, turned
as if to speak to us, but only stared in a curi-
ous blind manner, and again looked back.
Jackson bellowed out, "Watch well on
deck there!" heard a faint answer from
above, and reaching out with his foot
slammed-to the cabin door.

" All right now," he said.

Karain's lips moved slightly. A vivid
flash of lightning made the two round stern-
ports facing him glimmer like a pair of
cruel and phosphorescent eyes. The flame
of the lamp seemed to wither into brown
dust for an instant, and the looking-glass
over the little sideboard leaped out behind
his back in a smooth sheet of livid light.
The roll of thunder came near, crashed over
us; the schooner trembled, and the great

Karain: a Memory

voice went on, threatening terribly, into the
distance. For less than a minute a furious
shower rattled on the decks. Karain looked
slowly from face to face, and then the si-
lence became so profound that we all could
hear distinctly the two chronometers in my
cabin ticking along with unflagging speed
against one another.

And we three, strangely moved, could not
take our eyes from him. He had become
enigmatical and touching, in virtue of that
mysterious cause that had driven him
through the night and through the thunder-
storm to the shelter of the schooner's cuddy.
Not one of us doubted that we were looking
at a fugitive, incredible as it appeared to us.
He was haggard, as though he had not
slept for weeks; he had become lean, as
though he had not eaten for days. His
cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunk, the mus-
cles of his chest and arms twitched slightly
as if after an exhausting contest. Of
course, it had been a long swim off to the
schooner; but his face showed another
kind of fatigue, the tormented weariness,
the anger and the fear of a struggle against

Talcs of Unrest

a thought, an idea — ^against something that
cannot be grappled, that never rests — a
shadow, a nothing, unconquerable and im-
mortal, that preys upon life. We knew it as
though he had shouted it at us. His chest
expanded time after time, as if it could not
contain the beating of his heart. For a mo-
ment he had the power of the possessed —
the power to awaken in the beholders won-
der, pain, pity, and a fearful near sense of
things invisible, of things dark and mute,
that surround the loneliness of mankind.
His eyes roamed about aimlessly for a mo-
ment, then became still. He said with
effort—

" I came here ... I leaped out of my
stockade as after a defeat. I ran in the
night. The water was black. I left him
calling on the edge of black water ... I
left him standing alone on the beach. I
swam ... he called out after me ... I
swam ..."

He trembled from head to foot, sitting
very upright and gazing straight before
him. Left whom? Who called? We did
not know. We could not understand I
said at all hazards —

Karain : a Memory

" Be firm."

The sound of my voice seemed to steady
him into a sudden rigidity, but otherwise
he took no notice. He seemed to listen, to
expect something for a moment, then went
on —

" He cannot come here — ^therefore I
sought you. You men with white faces who
despise the invisible voices. He cannot
abide your unbelief and your strength."

He was silent for a while, then exclaimed
softly —

" Oh ! the strength of unbelievers ! "

" There's no one here but you — ^and we
three," said HoUis, quietly. He reclined
with his head supported on elbow and did
not budge.

" I know," said Karain. " He has never
followed me here. Was not the wise man
ever by my side? But since the old wise
man, who knew of my trouble, has died, I
have heard the voice every night. I shut
myself up — for many days — in the dark. I
can hear the sorrowful murmurs of women,
the whisper of the wind, of the running
waters; the clash of weapons in the hands

Tales of Unrest

of faithful men, their footsteps — ^and his
voice! • . • Near . . • Sol In my ear! I
felt him near . . . His breath passed over
my neck. I leaped out without a cry. All
about me men slept quietly. I ran to the
sea. He ran by my side without footsteps,
whispering, whispering old words — ^whis-
pering into my ear in his old voice. I ran
into the sea; I swam off to you, with my
kriss between my teeth. I, armed, I fled be-
fore a breath — ^to you. Take me away to
your land. The wise old man has died, and
with him is gone the power of his words and
charms. And I can tell no one. No one.
There is no one here faithful enough and
wise enough to know. It is only near you,
unbelievers, that my trouble fades like k
mist under the eye of day."

He turned to me.

" With you I go ! " he cried in a contained
voice. " With you, who know so many of
us. I want to leave this land — ^my people
. . . and him — ^there! "

He pointed a shaking finger at random
over his shoulder. It was hard for us to
bear the intensity of that undisclosed

Karain: a Memory

tress. HoUis stared at him hard, I asked
gently—

" Where is the danger? "

" Everywhere outside this place/* he an-
swered, mournfully. " In every place where
I am. He waits for me on the paths, under
the trees, in the place where I sleep — every-
where but here."

He looked round the little cabin, at the
painted beams, at the tarnished varnish of
bulkheads; he looked round as if appealing
to all its shabby strangeness, to the disor-
derly jumble of unfamiliar things that be-
long to an inconceivable life of stress, of
power, of endeavour, of unbelief — ^to the
strong life of white men, which rolls on ir-
resistible and hard on the edge of outer
darkness. He stretched out his arms as if
to embrace it and us. We waited. The
wind and rain had ceased, and the stillness
of the night round the schooner was as
dumb and complete as if a dead world had
been laid to rest in a grave of clouds. We
expected him to speak. The necessity
within him tore at his lips. There are those
who say that a native will not speak to a

TalA of Unrest

whit6%ian. Err6f. No man will speak to
his master; but ti a wanderer and a friend,
to him who does not come to teach or to
rule, to him who asks for nothing and ac-
cepts all things, words are spoken by the
camp-fires, in the shared solitude of the sea,
in riverside villages, in resting-places sur-
rounded by forests — ^words are spoken that
take no account of race or colour. One
heart speaks — another one listens; and the
earth, the sea, the sky, the passing wind and
the stirring leaf, hear also the futile tale of
the burden of life.

He spoke at last. It it impossible to con-
vey the effect of his story. It is undying, it
is but a memory, and its vividness cannot
be made clear to another mind any more
than the vivid emotions of a dream. One
must have seen his innate splendour, one
must have known him before — ^looked at
him then. The wavering gloom of the little
cabin; the breathless stillness outside,
through which only the lapping of water
against the schooner's sides could be heard;
HoUis's pale face, with steady dark eyes;
the energetic head of Jackson held up be-

Karain: a N ^mory

tween two big palms^ and v^ith the loFg yd-
low hair of his beard flowing over the
strings of th^ guitar lying on the table ; Ka-
rain's upright and motionless pose, his tone
— all this- made an impression that cannot
be forgotten. He faced us across the table.
Hi$ dark head and bronze torso appeared
above the tarnished slab of wood, gleam-
ing and still as if cast in metal. Only his
lips moved, and his eyes glowed, went out,
blazed again, or staged mournfully. His ex-
pressions came straight from his tormented
heart. His words sounded low, in a sad
murmur as of running water; at times they
rang loud like the clash of a war-gong —
or trailed slowly like weary travellers— or
rushed forward with the speed of fean

This is, imperfectly, what he said—
" It was after the great trouble that broke
the alliance of the four states of Wajo.
We fought amongst ourselves, and the
Dutch watched from afar till we were weary.
Then the smoke of their fire-ships was seen
at the mouth of our rivers, and their great
men came in boats full of soldiers to talk
to us of protection and peace. We an-
swered with caution and wisdom, for our
villages were burnt, our stockades weak,
the people weary, and the weapons blunt
They came and went; there had been much
talk, but after they went away everything
seemed to be as before, only their ships re-
mained in sight from our coast, and very
soon their traders came amongst us under
a promise of safety. My brother was a
Ruler, and one of those who had given the
promise. I was young then, and had fought
in the war, and Fata Matara had fought by

Karain: a Memory

my side. We had shared hunger, danger,
fatigue, and victory. His eyes saw my dan-
ger quickly, and twice my arm had pre-
served his life. It was his destiny. He was
my friend. And he was great amongst us
—one of those who were near my brother,
the Ruler. He spoke in council, his cour-
age was great, he was the chief of many vil-
lages round the great lake that is in the
middle of our country as the heart is in the
middle of a man's body. When his sword
was carried into a campong in advance of
his coming, the maidens whispered wonder-
ingly under the fruit-trees, the rich men
consulted together in the shade, and a feast
was made ready with rejoicing and songs.
He had the favour of the Ruler and the af-
fection of the poor. He loved war, deer
hunts, and the charms of women. He was
the possessor of jewels, of lucky weapons,
and of men's devotion. He was a fierce
man; and I had no other friend.

"I was th^ chief of a stockade at the
mouth ot the river, and collected tolls for
my brother from the passing boats. One
day I saw a Dutch trader go up the river,

Talcs of Unrest

He went up with three boats, and no toll
was demanded from him, because the
smoke of Dutch war-ships stood out from
the open sea, and we were too weak to for-
get treaties. He went up under the prom-
ise of safety, and my brother gave him pro-
tection. He said he came to trade. He lis-
tened to our voices, for we are men who
speak openly and without fear; he counted
the number of our spears, he examined the
trees, the running waters, the grasses of the
bank, the slopes of our hills. He went up
to Matara's country and obtained permis-
sion to build a house. He traded and
planted. He despised our joys, our
thoughts, and our sorrows. His face was
red, his hair like flame, and his eyes pale,
like a river mist; he moved heavily, and
spoke with a deep voice; he laughed aloud
like a fool, and knew no courtesy in his
speech. He was a big, scornful man, who
looked into women's faces and put his hand
on the shoulders of free men as though he
had been a noble-bom chief. We bore with
him. Time passed.

" Then Pata Matara's sister fled from the

Karain: a Memory

campong and went to live in the Du^ch*
man's house. She was a great and wilful
lady: I had seen her once carried high on
slaves' shoulders amongst the people, with
uncovered face, and I had heard all men
say that her beauty was extreme, silencing
the reason and ravishing the heart of the be-
holders. The people were dismayed; M*-
tara's face was blackened with that disgrace,
for she knew she had been promised to an«
other man. Matara went to the Dutch-
man's house, and said, * Give her up to die
— she is the daughter of chiefs.' The white
man refused, and shut himself up, while his
servants kept guard night and day with
loaded guns. Matara raged. My brother
called a council. But the Dutch ships were
near, and watched our coast greedily. My
brother said, ' If he dies now our land will
pay for his blood. Leave him alone till we
grow stronger and the ships are gone.*
Matara was wise; he waited and watched.
But the white man feared for her life and
went away.

" He left his house, his plantations, and
his goods I He departed, armed and men-

:♦

Talcs of Unrest

acing, and left all — for her! She had rav-
ished his heart! From my stockade I saw
him put out to sea in a big boat. Matara
and I watched him from the fighting plat-
form behind the pointed stakes. He sat
cross-legged, with his gun in his hands, on
the roof at the stem of his prau. The bar-
rel of his rifle glinted aslant before his big
red face. The broad river was stretched
under him — ^Icvel, smooth, shining, like a
plain of silver; and his prau, looking very
short and black from the shore, glided
along the silver plain and over into the blue
of the sea.

"Thrice Matara, standing by my side,
called aloud her name with grief and im-
precations. He stirred my heart. It leaped
three times; and three times with the eye
of my mind I saw in the gloom within the
enclosed space of the prau a woman with
streaming hair going away from her land
and her people. I was angry — ^and sorry.
Why? And then I also cried out insults
ai\d threats. Matara said, * Now they have
left our land their lives are mine. I shall ^

follow and strike — and, alone, pay the price

Karain : a Memory

of blood.' A great wind was sweeping
towards the setting sun over the empty
river. I cried, * By your side I will go ! '
' He lowered his head in sign of assent. It
was his destiny. The sun had set, and the
trees swayed their boughs with a great
noise above our heads.

" On the third night we two left our land
together in a trading prau.

" The sea met us — ^the sea, wide, pathless,
and without voice. A sailing prau leaves
no track. We went south. The moon was
full; and, looking up, we said to one an-
other, ' When the next moon shines as this
one, we shall return and they will be dead.*
It was fifteen years ago. Many moons have
grown full and withered, and I have not
seen my land since. We sailed south; we
overtook many praus; we examined the
creeks and the bays; we saw the end of our
coast, of our island — a steep cape over a
disturbed strait, where drift the shadows
of shipwrecked praus and drowned men
clamour in the night. The wide sea was all
round us now. We saw a great mountain
burning in the midst of water; we saw thou-
4 49

Tales of Unrest

sands of islets scattered like bits of iron fired
from a big gun; we saw a long coast of
mountain and lowlands stretching away in
sunshine from west to east It was Java.
We said, 'They are there; thdr time is
near, and we shall return or die cleansed
from dishonour/

" We landed. Is there anything good in
that country? The paths run straight and
hard and dusty. Stone campongs, full of
white faces, are surrounded by fertile fields,
but every man you meet is a slave. The
rulers live under the edge of a foreign
sword. We ascended mountains, we trav-
ersed valleys; at sunset we entered villages.
We asked every one, ' Have you seen such
a white man?' Some stared; others
laughed; women gave us food, sometimes,
with fear and respect, as though we had
been distracted by the visitation of God;
but some did not understand our language,
and some cursed us, or, yawning, asked
with contempt the reason of our quest
Once, as we were going away, an old man
called after us, ' Desist I *

" We went on. Concealing our weapons,

5«

Karain: a Memory

wc stood humbly aside before the horse-
men on the road; we bowed low in the
courtyards of chiefs who were no better
than slaves. We lost ourselves in the fields,
in the jungle; and one night, in a tangled
forest, we came upon a place where crumb-
ling old walls had fallen amongst the trees,
and where strange stone idols— carved
images of devils with many arms and legs,
with snakes twined round their bodies, with
twenty heads and holding a hundred swords
— seemed to live and threaten in the light
of our camp-fire. Nothing dismayed us.
And on the road, by every fire, in resting-
places, we always talked of her and of him.
Their time was near. We spoke of nothing
else. No! not of hunger, thirst, weariness,
and faltering hearts. No! we spoke of him
and her? Of her ! And we thought of them
— of her! Matara brooded by the fire. I
sat and thought and thought, till suddenly
I could see again the image of a woman,
beautiful, and young, and great, and proud,
and tender, going away from her land and
her people. Matara said, ' When we find
them we shall kill her first to cleanse the dis*

Tales of Unrest

honour — ^then the man must die/ 1 would
say, ' It shall be so; it is your vengeance/
He stared long at me with his big sunken
eyes.

" We came back to the coast. Our feet
were bleeding, our bodies thin. We slept
in rags under the shadow of stone enclos-
ures; we prowled, soiled and lean, about
the gateways of white men's courtyards.
Their hairy dogs barked at us, and their
servants shouted from afar, ' Begone ! '
Low-bom wretches, that keep watch over
the streets of stone campongs, asked us who
we were. We lied, we cringed, we smiled
with hate in our hearts, and we kept look-
ing here, looking there, for them — ^for the
white man with hair like flame, and for her,
for the woman who had broken faith, and
therefore must die. We looked. At last in
every woman's face I thought I could 'see
hers. We ran swiftly. No! Sometimes
Matara would whisper, ' Here is the man,'
and we waited, crouching. He came near.
It was not the man — ^tbose Dutchmen are
all alike. We suffered the anguish of de-
ccpticHi. In my sleep I saw her face, and

Karain: a Memory

was both joyful and sorry. • . . Why?
• • . I seemed to hear a whisper near me.
I turned swiftly. She was not there 1 And
as we trudged wearily from stone city to
stone city I seemed to hear a light footstep
near me. A time came when I heard it al-
ways, and I was glad. I thought, walking
dizzy and weary in sunshine on the hard
paths of white men — I thought, She is
there — ^with us! . . . Matara was sombre.
We were often hungry.

" We sold the carved sheaths of our
krisses — ^the ivory sheaths with golden
ferules. We sold the jewelled hilts. But
we kept the blades — ^for them. The blades
that never touch but kill — ^we kept the
blades for her . . . Why? She was always
by our side . . . We starved. We begged.
We left Java at last.

" We went West, we went East. We saw
many lands, crowds of strange faces, men
that live in trees and men who eat their old
people. We cut rattans in the forest for a
handful of rice, and for a living swept the
decks of big ships and heard curses heaped
upon our heads. We toiled in villages; we

Talcs of Unrest

wandered upon the seas with the Bajow
people, who have no country. We fought
for pay; we hired ourselves to work for
Coram men, and were cheated; and under
the orders of rough white-faces we dived for
pearls in barren bays, dotted with black
rocks, upon a coast of sand and desolation.
And ever)rwhere we watched, we listened,
we asked. We asked traders, robbers, white
men. We heard jeers, mockery, threats —
words of wonder and words of contempt.
We never knew rest; we never thought of
home, for our work was not done. A year
passed, then another. I ceased to count the
number of nights, of moons, of years. I
watched over Matara. He had my last
handful of rice; if there was water enough
for one he drank it; I covered him up when
he shivered with cold; and when the hot
sickness came upon him I sat sleepless
through many nights and fanned his face.
He was a fierce man, and my friend. He
spoke of her with fury in the daytime, with
sorrow in the dark; he remembered her in
health, in sickness. I said nothing; but I
taw her every day — ^always! At first I saw

Karaiii: a Memory

only her head, as of a woman walking in
the low mist on a river bank. Then she sat
by our fire. I saw her! I looked at her!
She had tender eyes and a ravishing face. I
murmured to her in the night. Matara
said sleepily sometimes, ' To whom arc you
talking? Who is there?' I answered
quickly, ' No one' ... It was a lie! She
never left me. She shared the warmth of
our fire, she sat on my couch of leaves, she
swam on the sea to follow me ... I saw
her! ... I tell you I saw her long black
hair spread behind her upon the moonlit
water as she struck out with bare arms by
the side of a swift prau. She was beautiful,
she was faithful, and in the silence of foreign
countries she spoke to me very low in the
language of my people. No one saw her;
no one heard her; she was mine only! In
daylight she moved with a swaying walk
before me upon the weary paths ; her figure
was straight and flexible like the stem of a
slender tree; the heels of her feet were
round and polished like shells of eggs; with
her round arm she made signs. At night
she looked into my face. And she was sad!

Tales of Unrest

Her eyes were tender and frightened; her
voice soft and pleading. Once I murmured
to her, ' You shall not die/ and she smiled
. . • ever after she smiled! . . . She gave
me courage to bear weariness and hardships.
Those were times of pain, and she soothed
me. We wandered patient in our search.
We knew deception, false hopes; we knew
captivity, sickness, thirst, misery, despair.
. . . Enough! We found them! . . ."

He cried out the last words and paused.
His face was impassive, and he kept still
like a man in a trance. HoUis sat up
quickly, and spread his elbows on the table.
Jackson made a brusque movement, and ac-
cidently touched the guitar. A plaintive
resonance filled the cabin with confused vi-
brations and died out slowly. Then Karain
began to speak again. The restrained
fierceness of his tone seemed to rise like a
voice from outside, like a thing unspoken
but heard; it filled the cabin and enveloped
in its intense and deadened murmur the
motionless figure in the chair.

" We were on our way to Atjeh, where
there was war; but the vessel ran on a sand-

Karain: a Memory

bank, and we had to land in Delli. We had
earned a little money, and had bought a
gun from some Selangore traders; only
one gun, which was fired by the spark of a
stone: Matara carried it. We landed.
Many white men lived there, planting to-
bacco on conquered plains, and Matara
. . . But no matter. He saw him! . . .
The Dutchman! ... At last! . . . We
crept and watched. Two nights and a day
we watched. He had a house — z big house
in a clearing in the midst of his fields;
flowers and bushes grew around; there
were narrow paths of yellow earth between
the cut grass, and thick hedges to keep peo-
ple out. The third night we came armed,
and lay behind a hedge.

" A heavy dew seemed to soak through
our flesh and made our very entrails cold.
The grass, the twigs, the leaves, covered
with drops of water, were grey in the moon-
light. Matara, curled up in the grass,
shivered in his sleep. My teeth rattled in
my head so loud that I was afraid the noise
would wake up all the land. Afar, the
watchmen of white men's houses struck

Talcs of Unrest

wooden clappers and hooted in the dark*
ness. And, as every night, I saw her by my
side. She smiled no more! . . . The fire
of anguish burned in my breast, and she
whispered to me with compassion, with pity,
softly — as women will; she soothed the
pain of my mind; she bent her face over
roe — ^the face of a woman who ravishes the
hearts and silences the reason of men. She
was all mine, and no one could see her — ^no
one of living mankind! Stars shone
through her bosom, through her floating
hair. I was overcome with regret, with ten-
derness, with sorrow. Matara slept . • •
Had I slept? Matara was shaking me by
the shoulder, and the fire of the sun was
drying the grass, the bushes, the leaves. It
was day. Shreds of white mist hung be-
tween the branches of trees.

"Was it night or day? I saw nothing
again till I heard Matara breathe quickly
where he lay, and then outside the house I
taw her. I saw them both. They had'come
out. She sat on a bench under the wall,
and twigs laden with flowers crept high
above her head, hung over her hair. She

Kaiain: a Memory

had a box on her lap, and gazed into it,
counting the increase of her pearls. The
Dutchman stood by looking on ; he smiled
down at her; his white teeth flashed; the
hair on his lip was like two twisted flames.
He was big and fat, and joyous, and with-
out fear. Matara tipped fresh priming from
the hollow of his palm, scraped the flint with
his thumb-nail, and gave the gun to me.
To me! I took it ... O fate!

" He whispered into my ear, lying on his
stomach,* I shall creep close and then amok
... let her die by my hand. You take aim
at the fat swine there. Let him see me
strike my shame off the face of the earth —
and then . . . you are my friend — ^kill with
a sure shot.' I said nothing; there was no
air in my chest — ^there was no air in the
world. Matara had gone suddenly from
my side. The grass nodded. Then a bush
rustled. She lifted her head.

" I saw her I The consoler of sleepless
nights, of weary days; the companion of
troubled years! I saw her! She looked
straight at the place where I crouched. She
was there as I had seen her for years-^a

Tales of Unrest

faithful wanderer by my side. She looked
with sad eyes and had smiling lips; she
looked at me . . . Smiling lips! Had I
not promised that she should not die!

" She was far off and I felt her near. Her
touch caressed me, and her voice mur-
mured, whispered above me, around me,
*Who shall be thy companion, who shall
console thee if I die? * I saw a flowering
thicket to the left of her stir a little . . *
Matara was ready ... I cried aloud —
'Return!'

" She leaped up ; the box fell ; the pearls
streamed at her feet. The big Dutchman
by her side rolled menacing eyes through
the still sunshine. The gun went up to my
shoulder. I was kneeling and I was firm —
firmer than the trees, the rocks, the moun-
tains. But in front of the steady long bar-
rel the fields, the house, the earth, the sky
swayed to and fro like shadows in a forest
on a windy day. Matara burst out of the
thicket; before him the petals of torn
flowers whirled high as if driven by a tem-
pest. I heard her cry; I saw her spring
with open arms in front of the white man.

Karain: a Memory

She was a woman of my country and of
noble blood. They are so! I heard her
shriek of anguish and fear — and all stood
still! The fields, the house, the earth, the
sky stood still — ^while Matara leaped at her
with uplifted arm. I pulled the trigger, saw
a spark, heard nothing; the smoke drove
back into my face, and then I could see
Matara roll over head first and lie with
stretched arms at her feet. Ha! A sure
shot! The sunshine fell on my back colder
than the running water. A sure shot! I
flung the gun after the shot. Those two
stood over the dead man as though they
had been bewitched by a charm. I shouted
at her, * Live and remember! ' Then for a
time I stumbled about in a cold darkness.

" Behind me there were great shouts, the
running of many feet; strange men sur-
rounded me, cried meaningless words into
my face, pushed me, dragged me, supported
me ... I stood before the big Dutchman:
he stared as if bereft of his reason. He
wanted to know, he talked fast, he spoke of
gratitude, he offered me food, shelter, gold
— he asked many questions. I laughed in

Talcs of Unrest

his face. I said^ ' I am a Korinchi traveller
from Perak over there^ and know nothing
of that dead man. I was passing along the
path when I heard a shot, and your sense-
less people rushed out and dragged me
here.' He lifted his arms, he wondered, he
could not believe, he could not understand,
he clamoured in his own tongue! She had
her arms clasped round his neck, and over
her shoulder stared back at me with wide
eyes. I smiled and looked at her; I smiled
and waited to hear the sound of her voice.
The white man asked her suddenly, ' Do
you know him? ' I listened — my life was in
my ears! She looked at me long, she
looked at me with unflinching eyes, and
said aloud, ' No! I never saw him before.'
. . . What! Never before? Had she for-
gotten already? Was it possible? For^
gotten already-— after so many years — so
many years of wandering, of companion-
ship, of trouble, of tender words! Forgot-
ten already! ... I tore myself out from
the hands that held me and went away widi-
out a word . . . They let me go.
** I was weary. Did I sleep? I do not

Karain: a Memory

know. I remember walking upon a broad
path under a clear starlight; and that
strange country seemed so big, the rice-
fields so vast, that, as I looked around, my
head swam with the fear of space. Then I
saw a forest. The joyous starlight was
heavy upon me. I turned off the path and
entered the forest, which was very sombre
and very sad.''

Karain's tone had been getting lower
and lower, as though he had been going
away from us, till the last words sounded
faint but clear, as if shouted on a cahn
day from a very great distance. He moved
not. He stared fixedly past the motion-
less head of Hollis, who faced him, as
still as himself. Jackson had turned side^
ways, and with elbow on the table shaded
his eyes with the palm of his hand. And I
looked on, surprised and moved; I looked
at that man, loyal to a vision, betrayed by
his dream, spumed by his illusion, and com-
ing to us unbelievers for help— against a
thought. The silence was profound; but
it seemed full of noiseless phantoms, of
things sorrowful, shadowy, and mute, in
whose invisible presence the firm, pulsat-
ing beat of the two ship's chronometers
ticking off steadily the seconds of Green-
wich Time seemed to me a protection and a

Karain: a Memory

relief. Karain stared stonily; and looking
at his rigid figure, I thought of his wander-
ings, of that obscure Odyssey of revenge,
of all the men that wander amongst illu-
sions; of the illusions as restless as men;
of the illusions faithful, faithless; of the il-
lusions that give joy, that give sorrow, that
give pain, that give peace; of the invincible
illusions that can make life and death appear
serene, inspiring, tormented, or ignoble.

A murmur was heard; that voice from
outside seemed to flow out of a dreaming
world into the lamplight of the cabin. Ka-
rain was speaking.

" I lived in the forest.

"She came no more. Never! Never
once! I lived alone. She had forgotten.
It was well. I did not want her; I wanted
no one. I found an abandoned house in an
old clearing. Nobody came near. Some-
times I heard in the distance the voices of
people going along a path. I slept; I
rested; there was wild rice, water from a
running stream — ^and peace! Every night
I sat alone by my small fire before the hut.
Many nights passed over my head

S 6s

Tales of Unrest

*' Then, one evening, as I sat by my fire
after having eaten, I looked down on the
ground and began to remember my wan-
derings, I lifted my head. I had heard no
sound, no rustle, no footsteps — ^but I lifted
my head. A man was coming towards me
across the small clearing. I waited. He
came up without a greeting and squatted
down into the firelight. Then he turned his
face to me. It was Matara. He stared at
me fiercely with his big sunken eyes. The
night was cold; the heat died suddenly out
of the fire, and he stared at me. I rose and
went away from there, leaving him by the
fire that had no heat

" I walked all that night, all next day,
and in the evening made up a big blaze and
sat down — ^to wait for him. He did not
come into the light. I heard him in the
bushes here and there, whispering, whisper-
ing. I understood at last — I had heard the
words before,* You are my friend — ^kill with
a sure shot.'

" I bore it as long as I could — ^then
leaped away, as on this very night I leaped
from my stockade and swam to you. I ran:

Karain: a Memory

—I ran crying like a child left alone znd far
from the houses. He ran by my side, with-
out footsteps, whispering, whispering — in-
visible and heard. I sought people — I
wanted men around me ! Men who had not
died! And again we two wandered. I
sought danger, violence, and death. I
fought in the Atjeh war, and a brave people
wondered at the valiance of a stranger. But
we were two; he warded off the blows . . .
Why? I wanted peace, not life. And no
one could see him; no one knew — ^I dared
tell no one. At times he would leave me,
but not for long; then he would return and
whisper or stare. My heart was torn with
a strange fear, but could not die. Then I
met an old man.

" You all knew him. People here called
him my sorcerer, my servant and sword-
bearer; but to me he was father, mother,
protection, refuge, and peace. When I met
him he was returning from a pilgrimage,
and I heard him intoning the prayer of sun-
set. He had gone to the holy place with
his son, his son's wife, and a little child;
and on their return, by the favour of the

Tales of Unrest

Most High, they all died : the strong man»
the young mother, the little child — they
died; and the old man reached his country
alone. He was a pilgrim serene and pious,
very wise and very lonely. I told him all.
For a time we lived together. He said over
me words of compassion, of wisdom, of
prayer. He warded from me the shade of
the dead. I begged him for a charm that
would make me safe. For a long time he
refused; but at last, with a sigh and a smile,
he gave me one. Doubtless he could com-
mand a spirit stronger than the unrest of my
dead friend, and again I had peace; but I
had become restless, and a lover of turm<»l
and danger. The old man never left me.
We travelled together. We were welcomed
by the great; his wisdom and my courage
are remembered where your strength, O
white men, is forgotten! We served the
Sultan of Sula. We fought the Spaniards.
There were victories, hopes, defeats, sor-
row, blood, women's tears . . . What for?
. . . We fled. We collected wanderers of
a warlike race and came here to fight again.
The rest you know. I am the ruler of a

Karain: a Memory

conquered land^a lover of war and danger, a
fighter and a plotter. But the old man has
died, and I am again the slave of the dead.
He is not here now to drive away the re-
proachful shade — ^to silence the lifeless
voice! The power of his charm has died
with him. And I know fear; and I hear the
whisper/ Kill! kill! kill!' . . . Have I not
killed enough? ..."

For the first time that night a sudden con-
vulsion of madness and rage passed over
his face. His wavering glances darted here
and there like scared birds in a thunder-
storm. He jumped up, shouting —

" By the spirits that drink blood: by the
spirits that cry in the night: by all the
spirits of fury, misfortune, and death, I
swear— some day I will strike into every
heart I meet — I ..."

He looked so dangerous that we all three
leaped to our feet, and Hollis, with the back
of his hand, sent the kriss fl3ring off the
table. I believe we shouted together. It
was a short scare, and the next moment he
was again composed in his chair, with three
white men standing over him in rather fool-

«9

Talcs of Unrest

ish attitudes. We felt a little ashamed of
ourselves. Jackson picked up the kriss,
and, after ;an inquiring glance at me, gave
it to him. He received it with a stately in-
clination of the head and stuck it in the
twist of his sarong, with punctilious care to
give his weapon a pacific position. Then
he looked up at us with an austere smile.
We were abashed and reproved. Hollis sat
sideways on the table and, holding his chin
in his hand, scrutinised him in pensive si-
lence. I said —

" You must abide with your people.
They need you. And there is forgetfulness
in life. Even the dead cease to speak in
time."

" Am I a woman, to forget long years be-
fore an eyelid has had the time to beat
twice?" he exclaimed, with bitter resent-
ment. He startled me. It was amazing.
To him his life — ^that cruel mirage of love
and peace — seemed as real, as undeniable,
as theirs would be to any saint, philosopher,
or fool of us all. Hollis muttered —

** You won't soothe him with your plati-

tudes/'

Karain: a Memory

Karain spoke to me.

" You know us. You have lived with us.
Why? — ^we cannot know; but you under-
stand our sorrows and our thoughts. You
have lived with my people^ and you under-
stand our desires and our fears. With you
I will go. To your land — ^to your people.
To your people, who live in unbelief; to
whom day is day, and night is night — ^noth-
ing more, because you understand all things
seen, and despise all else I To your land of
unbelief, where the dead do not speak,
where every man is wise, and alone — ^and at
peace! "

" Capital description," murmured HoUi^
with the flicker of a smile.

Karain hung his head.

" I can toil, and fight — and be faithful,'^
he whispered, in a weary tone, " but I can-
not go back to him who waits for me on the
shore. No! Take me with you ... Or
else give me some of your strength— of
your unbelief ... A charm! . . ."

He seemed utterly exhausted.

" Yes, take him home," said HoUis, very
low, as if debating with himself. "That

Talcs of Unrest

would be one way. The ghosts there are
in society, and talk affably to ladies and
gentlemen, but would scorn a naked hu-
man being — ^like our princely friend. . • .
Naked . • . Flayed! I shotdd say. I am
sorry for him. Impossible— of course. The
end of all this shall be/' he went on, look-
ing up at us — " the end of this shall be, that
some day he will run amuck amongst his
faithful subjects and send ad patres ever so
many of them before they make up their
minds to the disloyalty of knocking him on
the head."

I nodded. I thought it more than proba-
ble that such would be the end of Karain.
It was evident that he had been hunted by
his thought along the very limit of human
endurance, and very little more pressing
was needed to make him swerve over into
the form of madness peculiar to his race.
The respite he had during the old man's life
made the return of the torment unbearable.
That much was clear.

He lifted his head suddenly; we had im^
agined for a moment that he had been
dozing.

Karain: a Memory

"Give me your protection— -or your
strength I " he cried. " A charm . • . a
weapon! "

Again his chin fell on his breast. We
looked at him, then looked at one another
with suspicious awe in our eyes, like men
who come unexpectedly upon the scene of
some mysterious disaster. He had given
himself up to us; he had thrust into our
hands his errors and his torment, his life and
his peace; and we did not know what to do
with that problem from the outer darkness.
We three white men, looking at that Malay,
could not find one word to the purpose
amongst us — if indeed there existed a word
that could solve that problem. We pon-
dered, and our hearts sank. We felt as
though we three had been called to the very
gate of Infernal Regions to judge, to decide
the fate of a wanderer coming suddenly
from a world of sunshine and illusions.

" By Jove, he seems to have a great idea
of our power," whispered HoUis, hope-
lessly. And then again there was a silence,
the feeble plash of water, the steady tick of
chronometers. Jackson, with bare arms

Talcs of Unrest

crossed, leaned his shoulders against the
bulkhead of the cabin. He was bending his
head under the deck beam; his fair beard
spread out magnificently over his chest; he
looked colossal, ineffectual, and mild.
There was something lugubrious in the as-
pect of the cabin; the air in it seemed to
become slowly charged with the cruel chill
of helplessness, with the pitiless anger of
egoism against the incomprehensible form
of an intruding pain. We had no idea what
to do ; we began to resent bitterly the hard
necessity to get rid of him.

HoUis mused, muttered suddenly with a
short laugh, '"Strength • • • Protection
. . . Charm." He slipped off the table and
left the cuddy without a look at us. It
seemed a base desertion. Jackson and I ex-
changed indignant glances. We could hear
him rummaging in his pigeon-hole of a
cabin. Was the fellow actually going to
bed? Karain sighed. It was intolerable!

Then Hollis reappeared, holding in both
hands a small leather box. He put it down
gently on the table and looked at us with a
queer gasp, we thought, as though he hid

Karain: a Memory

from some cause become speechless for a
moment, or were ethically uncertain about
producing that box. But in an instant the
insolent and unerring wisdom of his youth
gave him the needed courage. He said, as
he unlocked the box with a very small key,
" Look as solemn as you can, you fellows."

Probably we looked only surprised and
stupid, for he glanced over his shoulder,
and said angrily —

** This is no play; I am going to do some-
thing for him. Look serious. Confound
it! . . • Can't you lie a little . • . for a
friend!'*

Karain seemed to take no notice of us,
but when Hollis threw open the lid of the
box his eyes flew to it — ^and so did ours.
The quilted crimson satin of the inside put
in a violent patch of colour into the sombre
atmosphere; it was something positive to
look at — it was fascinating.

HoLLis looked smiling into the box.
He had lately made a dash home through
the Canal. He had been away six months,
and only joined us again just in time for
this last trip. We had never seen the
box before. His hands hovered above it;
and he talked to us ironically, but his
face became as grave as though he were
pronouncing a powerful incantation over
the things inside.

" Every one -of us," he said, with pauses
that somehow were more offensive than his
words — ^" every one of us, you'll admit, has
been haunted by some women • • . And
. • . as to friends . . • dropped by the way
. . • Well! . . . ask yourselves . . •"

He paused. Karain stared. A deep
rumble was heard high up under the deck.
Jackson spoke seriously —

" Don't be so beastly cynical."

''Ahl You are without guile/' said Hol-

Karain: a Memory

lis, sadly. ** You will learn • . . Meantime
this Malay has been our friend . • J*

He repeated several times thoughtfully,
" Friend . . . Malay. Friend, Malay," as
though weighing the words against one an-
other, then went on more briskly —

" A good fellow — a gentleman in his way.
We can't, so to speak, turn our backs on his
confidence and belief in us. Those Malays
are easily impressed — all nerves, you know
— ^therefore . . .*'

He turned to me sharply.

*' You know him best,'' he said, in a
practical tone. *' Do you think he is fanat-
ical — I mean very strict in his faith? "

I stammered in profound amazement
that " I did not think so."

" It's on account of its being a likeness—
an engraved image," muttered HoUis, enig-
matically, turning to the box. He plunged
his fingers into it, Karain's lips were parted
and his eyes shone. We looked into the
box.

There were there a couple of reels of cot-
ton, a packet of needles, a bit of silk ribbon,
dark blue; a cabinet photograpli, at which

Tales of Unrest

HoIIis stole a glance before laying it on the
table face downwards. A girl's portrait, I
could see. There were, amongst a lot of
various small objects, a bunch of flowers, a
narrow white glove with many buttons, a
slim packet of letters carefully tied up. Am-
ulets of white men! Charms and talismans!
Charms that keep them straight, that drive
them crooked, that have the power to make
a young man sigh, an old man smile. Po-
tent things that procure dreams of joy,
thoughts of regret; that soften hard hearts,
and can temper a soft one to the hardness
of steel. Gifts of heaven — things of
earth . . •

HoUis rummaged in the box.

And it seemed to me, during that moment
of waiting, that the cabin of the schooner
was becoming filled with a stir invisible and
living as of subtle breaths. All the ghosts
driven out of the unbelieving West by men
who pretend to be wise and alone and at
peace — all the homeless ghosts of an unbe-
lieving world — appeared suddenly round
the figure of Hollis bending over the box;
aU the exiled and charming shades of loved

Karain: a Memory

women ; all the beautiful and tender ghosts
of ideals, remembered, forgotten, cherished,
execrated; all the cast-out and reproachful
ghosts of friends admired, trusted, tra-
duced, betrayed, left dead by the way — ^they
all seemed to come from the inhospitable
regions of the earth to crowd into the
gloomy cabin, as though it had been a ref-
uge and, in all the unbelieving world, the
only place of avenging belief. . . . It lasted
a second — ^all disappeared. HoUis was fac-
ing us alone with something small that glit-
tered between his fingers. It looked like a
coin.

" Ah ! here it is," he said.

He held it up. It was a sixpence — z Ju-
bilee sixpence. It was gilt; it had a hole
punched near the rim. HoUis looked to-
wards Karain.

" A charm for our friend,*' he said to us.
" The thing itself is of great power — ^money,
you know — and his imagination is struck.
A loyal vagabond; if only his puritanism
doesn't shy at a likeness . . .'*

We said nothing. We did not know
whether to be scandalised, amused, or re*

Talcs of Unrest

lieved. Hollis advanced towards Karain,
who stood up as if startled, and then, hold-
ing the coin up, spoke in Malay.

" This is the image of the Great Queen,
and the most powerful thing the white men
know," he said, solemnly.

Karain covered the handle of his kriss in
sign of respect, and stared at the crowned
head.

"The Invincible, the Pious,*' he mut-
tered.

" She is more powerful than Suleiman
the Wise, who commanded the genii, as you
know," said Hollis, gravely. ** I shall give
this to you."

He held the sixpence in the palm of his
hand, and lookin^^ at it thoughtfully, spoke
to us in English.

** She commands a spirit, too — the spirit
of her nation; a masterful, conscientious,
unscrupulous, unconquerable devil . • •
that does a lot of good — ^incidentally . . .
a lot of good • • • at times — and wouldn't
stand any fuss from the best ghost out for
such a little thing as our friend's shot
Don't look thunderstruck, you fellows.

Karain: a Memory

Help me to make him believe— every-
thing's in that."

" His people will be shocked,** I mur-
mured.

HoUis looked fixedly at Karain, who was
the incarnation of the very essence of still
excitement He stood rigid, with head
thrown back; his eyes rolled wildly, flash-
ing; the dilated nostrils quivered.

" Hang it all! " said Hollis at last, " he is
a good fellow. I'll give him something that
I shall really miss."

He took the ribbon out of the box, smiled
at it scornfully, then with a pair of scissors
cut out a piece from the palm of the glove.

" I shall make him a thing like those Ital-
ian peasants wear, you know."

He sewed the coin in the delicate leather,
sewed the leather to the ribbon, tied the
ends together. He worked with haste.
Karain watched his fingers all the time.

" Now then," he said — ^then stepped up
to Karain. They looked close into one an-
other's eyes. Those of Karain stared in a
lost glance, but Hollis's seemed to grow
darker and looked out masterful and com«
6 8x

Tales of Unrest

pclling. They were in violcpt contrast to*
gether— one motionless and the colour of
bronze, the other dazzling white and lifting
his arms, where the powerful muscles rolled
slightly under a skin that gleamed like
satin. Jackson moved near with the air of a
man closing up to a chum in a tight place.
I said impressively, pointing to Hollis —

" He is young, but he is wise. Believe
him!"

Karain bent his head: Hollis threw
lightly over it the dark-blue ribbon and
stepped back.

" Forget, and be at peace ! " I cried.

Karain seemed to wake up from a dream*
He said, " Ha! " shook himself as if throw-
ing off a burden. He looked round with
assurance. Some one on deck dragged off
the skylight cover, and a flood of light fell
into the cabin. It was morning already.

" Time to go on deck,** said Jackson.

Hollis put on a coat, and we went up, Ka-
rain leading.

The sun had risen beyond the hills, and
their long shadows stretched far over the
bay in the pearly light. The air was clear,

Karain: a Memory

stainless, and cool. I pointed at the curvtd
line of yellow sands.

'' He is not there/' I said, emphatically,
to Karain. '' He waits no more. He has
departed for ever."

A shaft of bright hot rays darted into the
bay between the summits of two hills, and
the water all round broke out as if by
magic into a dazzling sparkle.

" No ! He is not there waiting,** said Ka-
rain, after a long look over the beach. I do
not hear him," he went on, slowly. " Nol '^

He turned to us.

" He has departed again — ^for ever! " he
cried.

We assented vigorously, repeatedly, and
without compunction. The great thing was
to impress him powerfully; to suggest ab-
solute safety — ^the end of all trouble. We
did our best; and I hope we affirmed our
faith in the power of HoUis's charm effi-
ciently enough to put the matter beyond
the shadow of a doubt. Our voices rang
around him joyously in the still air, and
above his head the sky, pellucid, pure, stain-
less, arched its tender blue from shore to

«3

Tales of Unrest

shore and over the bay, as if to envelop the
water, the earth, and the man in the caress
of its light

The anchor was up, the sails hung still,
and half-a-dozen big boats were seen sweep-
ing over the bay to give us a tow out. The
paddlers in the first one that came along-
side lifted their heads and saw their ruler
standing amongst us. A low murmur of
surprise arose — ^then a shout of greeting.

He left us, and seemed straightway to
step into the glorious splendour of his
stage, to wrap himself in the illusion of un-
avoidable success. For a moment he stood
erect, one foot over the gangway, one hand
on the hilt of his kriss, in a martial pose;
and, relieved from the fear of outer dark-
ness, he held his head high, he swept a
serene look over his conquered foothold on
the earth. The boats far off took up the cry
of greeting; a great clamour rolled on the
water; the hills echoed it, and seemed to
toss back at him the words invoking long
life and victories.

He descended into a canoe, and as soon
as he was clear of the side we gave him

Karain: a Memory

three cheers. They sounded faint and
orderly after the wild tumult of his loyal
subjects, but it was the best we could do.
He stood up in the boat, lifted up both his
arms, then pointed to the infallible charm.
We cheered again; and the Malays in the
boats stared — ^very much puzzled and im-
pressed. I wonder what they thought;
what he thought ; . . . what the reader
thinks?

We towed out slowly. We saw him land
and watch us from the beach. A figure ap-
proached him humbly but openly — not at
all like a ghost with a grievance. We could
see other men running towards him. Per-
haps he had been missed? At any rate there
was a great stir. A group formed itself
rapidly near him, and he walked along the
sands, followed by a growing cortige, and
kept nearly abreast of the schooner. With
our glasses we could see the blue ribbon on
his neck and a patch of white on his brown
chest. The bay was waking up. The smoke
of morning iires stood in faint spirals
higher than the heads of palms; people
moved between the houses; a herd of buf-

Tales of Unrest

faloes galloped clumsily across a green
slope; the slender figures of boys brand-
ishing sticks appeared black and leap-
ing in the long grass; a coloured line of
women, with water bamboos on their heads,
moved swaying through a thin grove of
fruit-trees. Karain stopped in the midst of
his men and waved his hand; then, detach-
ing himself from the splendid group, walked
alone to the water's edge and waved his
hand again. The schooner passed out to
sea between the steep headlands that shut
in the bay, and at the same instant Karain
passed out of our life for ever.

But the memory remains. Some years
afterwards I met Jackson, in the Strand.
He was magnificent as ever. His head was
high above the crowd. His beard was gold,
his face red, his eyes blue; he had a wide-
brimmed grey hat and no collar or waist-
coat; he was inspiring; he had just come
home — ^had landed that very day! Our
meeting caused an eddy in the current of
humanity. Hurried people would run
against us, then walk round us, and turn

Karain: a Memory

back to look at that giant. We tried to
compress seven years of life into seven
exclamations ; then^ suddenly appeased,
walked sedately along, giving one another
the news of yesterday. Jackson gazed about
him, like a man who looks for landmarks,
then stopped before Bland's window. He
always had a passion for firearms; so he
stopped short and contemplated the row of
weapons, perfect and severe, drawn up in a
line behind the black-framed panes. I
stood by his side. Suddenly he said—

" Do you remember Karain? "

I nodded.

^' The sight of all this made me think of
him," he went on, with his face near the
glass . . . and I could see another man,
powerful and bearded, peering at him in-
tently from amongst the dark and polished
tubes that can cure so many illusions.
" Yes; it made me think of him," he con-
tinued, slowly. " I saw a paper this morn-
ing; they are fighting over there again.
He's sure to be in it. He will make it hot
for the caballeros. Well, good luck to him,
poor devil ! He was perfectly stunning.'*

Tales of Unrest

We walked on. •

" I wonder whether the charm worked —
you remember Hollis's charm, of course.
If it did • . • never was a sixpence wasted
to better advantage! Poor devil J I won-
der whether he got rid of that friend of his.
Hope so ... Do you know, I sometimes
think that "

I stood still and looked at him.

" Yes ... I mean, whether the thing
was so, you know . . . whether it really
happened to him. • • • What do you
think? "

"My dear chap," I cried, "you have been
too long away from home. What a ques-
tion to askl Only look at all this."^

A watery gleam of sunshine flashed from
the west and went out between two long
lines of walls; and then the broken confu-
sion of roofs, the chimney-stacks, the gold
letters sprawling over the fronts of houses,
the sombre polish of windows, stood re-
signed and sullen under the falling gloom.
The whole length of the street, deep as a
well and narrow like a corridor, va^s full of
a sombre and ceaseless stir. Ounears were

Karain: a Memory

filled by a headlong shuffle and beat of
rapid footsteps and an underlying rumour
•-a rumour vast, faint, pulsating, as of pant-
ing breaths, of beating hearts, of gasping
voices. Iimumerable eyes stared straight
in front, feet moved hurriedly, blank faces
flowed, arms swung. Over all, a narrow
ragged strip of smoky sky wound about be-
tween the high roofs, extended and motion-
less, like a soiled streamer flying above the
rout of a mob.

" Ye-e-e-s," said Jackson, meditatively.

The big wheels of hansoms turned slowly
along the edge of side-walks; a pale-faced
youth strolled, overcome by weariness, by
the side of his stick and with the tails of his
overcoat flapping gently near his heels;
horses stepped gingerly on the greasy pave-
ment, tossing their heads ; two young g^rls
passed by, talking vivaciously and with
shining eyes; a fine old fellow strutted, red-
faced, stroking a white moustache; and a
line of ydlow boards with blue letters on
them approached us slowly, tossing on high
behind one another like some queer wreck*
age adrift upon a river of hats.

Tales of Unrest

" Yc-c-es/' repeated Jackson. His clear
blue eyes looked about, contemptuous,
amused and hard, like the eyes of a boy. A
clumsy string of red, yellow, and green
omnibuses rolled swaying, monstrous and
gaudy; two shabby children ran across the
road; a knot of dirty men with red neck-
erchiefs round their bare throats lurched
along, discussing filthily; a ragged old man
with a face of despair yelled horribly in the
mud the name of a paper; while far off,
amongst the tossing heads of horses, the
dull flash of harnesses, the jumble of lus-
trous panels and roofs of carriages, we
could see a policeman, helmeted and dark,
stretching out a rigid arm at the crossing
of the streets.

Yes; I see it,'' said Jackson, slowly.

It is there; it pants, it runs, it rolls; it is
strong and alive; it would smash you if you
didn't look out; but Til be hanged if it is
yet as real to me as ... as the other thing
. . . say, Karain's story."

I think that, decidedly, he had been too
Ipog away from home.

The Idiots-

»N

The Idiots

"• OL-fv \JJ^ w^^^ driving along the road from
'^*-» Treguicr to Kervanda* We passed

at a smart trot between the hedges topping
an earth wall on each side of the road; then
at the foot of the steep ascent before Plou-
mar the horse dropped into a walk, and the
driver jumped down heavily from the box.
He flicked his whip and climbed the incline,
stepping clumsily uphill by the side of the
carriage, one hand on the footboard, his
eyes on the ground. After a while he lifted
his head, pointed up the road with the end
of the whip, and said —

"The idiot!"

The sun was shining violently upon the
undulating surface of the land. The rises
were topped by clumps of meagre trees,
with their branches showing high on the
sky as if they had been perched upon stilts.
The small fields, cut up by hedges and stone

Talcs of Unrest

walls that zigzagged over the slopes, lay in
rectangular patches of vivid greens and yel-
lows, resembling the unskilful daubs of a
naive picture. And the landscape was di-
vided in two by the white streak of a road
stretching in long loops far away, like a
river of dust crawling out of the hills on its
way to the sea.

" Here he is," said the driver, again.

In the long grass bordering the road a
face glided past the carriage at the level of
the wheels as we drove slowly by. The im-
becile face was red, and the bullet head with
close-cropped hair seemed to lie alone, its
chin in the dust. The body was lost in the
bushes growing thick along the bottom of
the deep ditch.

It was a boy's face. He might have been
sixteen, judging from the size — ^perhaps
less, perhaps more. Such creatures are for-
gotten by time, and live untouched by years
till death gathers them up into its compas-
sionate bosom ; the faithful death that never
forgets in the press of work the most insig-
nificant of its children.

^Ahl there's another," said the nitn,

The Idiots

with a certain satisfaction in his tone, as if
he had caught sight of something expected.

There was another. That one stood
nearly in the middle of the road in the blaze
of sunshine at the end of his own short
shadow. And he stood with hands pushed
into the opposite sleeves of his long coat,
his head sunk between the shoulders, all
hunched up in the flood of heat. From a
distance he had the aspect of one suffering
from intense cold.

" Those are twins," explained the driver.

The idiot shufHed two paces out of the
way and looked at us over his shoulder
when we brushed past him. The glance
was unseeing and staring, a fascinated
glance; but he did not turn to look after us.
Probably the image passed before the eyes
without leaving any trace on the misshapen
brain of the creature. When we had topped
the ascent I looked over the hood. He
stood in the road just where we had left
him.

The driver clambered into his seat,
clicked his tongue, and we went down hill.
The brake squeaked horribly from time to

Tales of Unrest

time. At the foot he eased off the noisy
mechanism and said^ turning half round on
his box —

'' We shall see some more of them by-
and-by."

" More idiots? How many of them are
there, then? " I asked.

"There's four of them— children of a
farmer near Ploumar here. . . . The par-
ents are dead now/' he added, after a while.
" The grandmother lives on the farm. In
the daytime they knock about on this road,
and they come home at dusk along with the
cattle. . . . It's a good farm.'*

We saw the other two : a boy and a girl,
as the driver said. They were dressed ex-
actly alike, in shapeless garments with petti-
coat-like skirts. The imperfect thing that
lived within them moved those beings to
howl at us from the top of the bank, where
they sprawled amongst the toqgh stalks of
furze. Their cropped black heads stuck out
from the bright yellow wall of countless
small blossoms. The faces were purple
with the strain of yelling; the voices
sounded blank and cracked like a mechan-

9«

The Idiots

ical imitation of old people's voices; and
suddenly ceased when we turned into a lane.

I saw them many times in my wandering
about the country. They lived on that road,
drifting along its length here and there, ac-
cording to the inexplicable impulses of their
monstrous darkness. They were an offence
to the sunshine, a reproach to empty
heaven, a blight on the concentrated and
purposeful vigour of the wild landscape. In
time the story of their parents shaped itself
before me out of the listless answers to my
questions, out of the indifferent words heard
in wayside inns or on the very road those
idiots haunted. Some of it was told by an
emaciated and sceptical old fellow with a
tremendous whip, while we trudged to-
gether over the sands by the side of a two-
wheded cart loaded with dripping seaweed.
Then at other times other people confirmed
and completed the story : till it stood at last
before me, a tale formidable and simple, as
they always are, those disclosures of ob-
scure trials endured by ignorant hearts.

When he returned from his military ser-
vice Jean-Pierre Bacadou found the old
7 97

Talcs of Unrest

people very much aged. He remarked with
pain that the work of the farm was not sat-
isfactorily done. The father had not the
energy of old days. The hands did not feel
over them the eye of the master. Jean-
Pierre noted with sorrow that the heap of
manure in the courtyard before the only en-
trance to the house was not so large as it
should have been. The fences were out of
repair, and the cattle suffered from neglect.
At home the mother was practically bed-
ridden, and the girls chattered loudly in the
big kitchen, unrebuked, from morning to
night. He said to himself: "We must
change all this." He talked the matter over
with his father one evening when the rays
of the setting sun entering the yard between
the outhouses ruled the heavy shadows with
luminous streaks. Over the manure heap
floated a mist, opal-tinted and odorous, and
the marauding hens would stop in their
scratching to examine with a sudden glance
of their round eye the two men, both lean
and tall, talking in hoarse tones. The old
man, all twisted with rheumatism and
bowed with years of work, the younger

The Idiots

bony axid straight, spoke without gestures
in the indifferent manner of peasants, grave
and slow. But before the sun had set the
father had submitted to the sensible argu-
ments of the son. " It is not for me that I
am speaking," insisted Jean-Pierre. " It is
for the land. It's a pity to see it badly used.
I am not impatient for myself." The old
fellow nodded over his stick. " I dare say;
I dare say," he muttered. '* You may be
right. Do what you like. It's the mother
that will be pleased."

The mother was pleased with her daugh-
ter-in-law. Jean-Pierre brought the two*
wheeled spring-cart with a rush into the
yard. The grey horse galloped clumsily,
and the bride and bridegroom, sitting side
by side, were jerked backwards and for-
wards by the up and down motion of the
shafts, in a manner regular and brusque.
On the road the distanced wedding guests
straggled in pairs and groups. The men
advanced with heavy steps, swinging their
idle arms. They were clad in town clothes :
jackets cut with clumsy smartness, hard
black hats, immense boots, polished highly.

Tales of Unrest

Their women all in simple black, with white
caps and shawls of faded tints folded trian-
gularly on the back, strolled lightly by their
side. In front the violin sang a strident
tune, and the biniou snored and hummed,
while the player capered solemnly, lifting
high his heavy clogs. The sombre proces-
sion drifted in and out of the narrow lanes,
through sunshine and through shade, be-
tween fields and hedgerows, scaring the lit-
tle birds that darted away in troops right
and left. In the yard of Bacadou's farm the
dark ribbon wound itself up into a mass of
men and women pushing at the door with
cries and greetings. The wedding dinner
was remembered for months. It was a
splendid feast in the orchard. Farmers of
considerable means and excellent repute
were to be found sleeping in ditches, all
along the road to Treguier, even as late as
the afternoon of the next day. All the
countryside participated in the happiness of
Jean-Pierre. He remained sober, and, to-
gether with his quiet wife, kept out of the
way, letting father and mother reap their
due of honour and thanks. Bat the next

lOO

The Idiots

day he took hold strongly, and the old folks
felt a shadow — ^precursor of the grave — ^fall
upon them finally. The world is to the
young*

When the twins were bom there was
plenty of room in the house, for the mother
of Jean-Pierre had gone away to dwell
under a heavy stone in the cemetery of
Ploumar. On that day, for the first time
since his son's marriage, the elder Bacadou,
neglected by the cackling lot of strange
women who thronged the kitchen, left in
the morning his seat under the mantel of
the fireplace, and went into the empty cow-
house, shaking his white locks dismally.
Grandsons were all very well, but he wanted
his soup at midday. When shown the ba-
bies, he stared at them with a fixed gaze,
and muttered something like: "It's too
much.'* Whether he meant too much hap-
piness, or simply commented upon the
number of his descendants, it is impossible
to say. He looked offended — as far as his
old wooden face could express anything;
and for days afterwards could be seen, al-
most any time of the day, sitting at the gate^

101

Talcs of Unrest

with his nose over his knees, a pipe between
his gums, and gathered up into a kind of
raging concentrated sulkiness. Once he
spoke to his son, alluding to the newcomers
with a groan : " They will quarrel over the
land." " Don't bother about that, father,"
answered Jean-Pierre, stolidly, and passed,
bent double, towing a recalcitrant cow over
his shoulder.

He was happy, and so was Susan, his
wife. It was not an ethereal joy welcoming
new souls to struggle, perchance to victory.
In fourteen years both boys would be a
help; and, later on, Jean-Pierre pictured
two big sons striding over the land from
patch to patch, wringing tribute from the
earth beloved and fruitful. Susan was
happy too, for she did not want to be spoken
of as the unfortunate woman, and now she
had children no one could call her that.
Both herself and her husband had seen
something of the larger world — ^he during
the time of his service; while she had spent
a year or so in Paris with a Breton family;
but had been too home-sick to remain lon-
ger away from the hilly and green country,

I02

Th€ Idiots

set in a barren circle of rocks and sands,
where she had been born. She thought that
one of the boys ought perhaps to be a priest,
but said nothing to her husband, who was a
republican, and hated the " crows," as he
called the ministers of religion. The christ-
ening was a splendid affair. All the com-
mune came to it, for the Bacadous were rich
and influential, and, now and then, did not
mind the expense. The grandfather had a
new coat.

Some months afterwards, one evening
when the kitchen had been swept, and the
door locked, Jean-Pierre, looking at the cot,
asked his wife: "What's the matter with
those children?" And, as if these words,
spoken calmly, had been the portent of mis-
fortune, she answered with a loud wail that
must have been heard across the yard in the
pig-sty; for the pigs (the Bacadous had the
finest pigs in the country) stirred and
grunted complainingly in the night. The
husband went on grinding his bread and
butter slowly, gazing at the wall, the soup-
plate smoking under his chin. He had re-
turned late from the market, where he had

103

Tales of Unrest

overheard (not for the first time) whispers
behind his back. He revolved the words in
his mind as he drove back. *' Simple 1 Both
of them. . . . Never any use! . . . Weill
May be, may be. One must see. Would
ask his wife.'' This was her answer. He
felt like a blow on his chest, but said only :
" Go, draw me some cider. I am thirsty I ''

She went out moaning, an empty jug in
her hand. Then he arose, took up the light,
and moved slowly towards the cradle. They
slept. He looked at them sideways, finished
his niouthful there, went back heavily, and
sat down before his plate. When his wife
returned he never looked up, but swallowed
a couple of spoonfuls noisily, and remarked,
in a dull manner —

"When they sleep they are like other
people's children." ,

She sat down suddenly on a stool near
by, and shook with a silent tempest of sobs,
unable to speak. He finished his meal, and
remained idly thrown back in his chair, his
eyes lost amongst the black rafters of the
ceiling. Before him the tallow candle flared
red and straight, sending up a slender

104

The Idiots

thread of smoke. The light lay on the
rough, sunburnt skin of his throat; the
sunk cheeks were like patches of darkness,
and his aspect was mournfully stolid, as if
he had ruminated with difficulty endless
ideas. Then he said, deliberately —

"We must see . • . consult people.
Don't cry. . . . They won't be all like that
. . . surely! We must sleep now."

After the third child, also a boy, was bom,
Jean-Pierre went about his work with tense
hopefulness. His lips seemed more narrow,
more tightly compressed than before; as if
for fear of letting the earth he tilled hear the
voice of hope that murmured within his
breast. He watched the child, stepping up
to the cot with a heavy clang of sabots on
the stone floor, and glanced in, along his
shoulder, with that indifference which is
like a deformity of peasant humanity. Like
the earth they master and serve, those men,
slow of eye and speech, do not show the
inner fire; so that, at last, it becomes a
question with them as with the earth, what
there is in the core: heat, violence, a force
mysterious and terrible— or nothing but a

105

Talcs of Unrest

clod, a mass fertile and inert, cold and un-
feeling, ready to bear a crop of plants that
sustain life or give death.

The mother watched with other eyes;
listened with otherwise expectant ears.
Under the high hanging shelves support-
ing great sides of bacon overhead, her body
was busy by the great fireplace, attentive
to the pot swinging on iron gallows, scrub-
bing the long table where the field hands
would sit down directly to their evening
meal. Her mind remained by the cradle,
night and day on the watch, to hope and
suffer. That child, like the other two, never
smiled, never stretched its hands to her,
never spoke ; never had a glance of recog-
nition for her in its big black eyes, which
could only stare fixedly at any glitter, but
failed hopelessly to follow the brilliance of
a sun-ray slipping slowly along the floor.
When the men were at work she spent long
days between her three idiot children and
the •childish grandfather, who sat grim,
angular, and immovable, with his feet near
the warm ashes of the fire. The feeble old
fellow seemed to suspect that there was

io6

The Idiots

something wrong with his grandsons. Only
once, moved either by affection or by the
sense of proprieties, he attempted to nurse
the youngest. He took the boy up from the
floor, clicked his tongue at him, and essayed
a shaky gallop of his bony knees. Then he
looked closely with his misty eyes at the
child's face and deposited him down gently
on the floor again. And he sat, his lean
shanks crossed, nodding at the stream es-
caping from the cooking-pot with a gaze
senile and worried.

Then mute affliction dwelt in Bacadou's
farmhouse, sharing the breath and the
bread of its inhabitants; and the priest of
the Ploumar parish had great cause for con-
gratulation. He called upon the rich land-
owner, the Marquis de Chavanes, on pur-
pose tp deliver himself with joyful unction
of solemn platitudes about the inscrutable
ways of Providence. In the vast dimness
of the curtained drawing-room, the little
man, resembling a black bolster, leaned
towards a couch, his hat on his knees, and
gesticulated with a fat hand at the elon-
gated, gracefully-flowing lines of the clear

107

Talcs of Unrest

Parisian toilette from within which the half-
amused, half-bored marquise listened with
gracious languor. He was exulting and
humble, proud and awed. The impossible
had come to pass. Jean-Pierre Bacadou,
the enraged republican farmer, had been to
mass last Sunday — ^had proposed to enter-
tain the visiting priests at the next festival
of Ploumar! It was a triumph for the
Church and for the good cause. "I
thought I would come at once to tell Mon-
sieur le Marquis. I know how anxious he
is for the welfare of our country," declared
the priest, wiping his face. He was asked
to stay to dinner.

The Chavanes returning that evening,
after seeing their guest to the main gate of
the park, discussed the matter while they
strolled in the moonlight, trailing their long
shadows up the straight avenue of chest-
nuts. The marquis, a royalist of course,
had been mayor of the commune which in-
cludes Ploumar, the scattered hamlets of
the coast, and the stony islands that fringe
the yellow flatness of the sands. He had
felt his position insecure, for there was a

zo8

The Idiots

strong republican element in that part of
the country; but now the conversion of
Jean-Pierre made him safe. He was very
pleased. ** You have no idea how influen-
tial those people are/' he explained to his
wife. " Now, I am sure, the next communal
election will go all right. I shall be re-
elected/* " Your ambition is perfectly in-
satiable, Charles," exclaimed the marquise,
gaily. ** But, ma chere amie," argued the
husband, seriously, "it's most important
that the right man should be mayor this
year, because of the elections to the Cham-
ber. If you think it amuses me . . J\

Jean-Pierre had surrendered to his wife's
mother. Madame Levaille was a woman of
business, known and respected within a
radius of at least fifteen miles. Thick-set
and stout, she was seen about the country,
on foot or in an acquaintance's cart, per-
petually moving, in spite of her fifty-eight
years, in steady pursuit of business. She
had houses in all the hamlets, she worked
quarries of granite, she freighted coasters
with stone— even traded with the Channel
Islands. She was broad-cheeked, wide-

109

Tales of Unrest

eyed, persuasive in speech: carrying her
point with the placid and invincible obsti-
nacy of an old woman who knows her own
mind. She very seldom slept for two
nights together in the same house; and the
wayside inns were the best places to inquire
in as to her whereabouts. She had either
passed, or was expected to pass there at six;
or somebody, cdming in, had seen her in
the morning, or expected to meet her that
evening. After the inns that command the
roads, the churches were the buildings she
frequented most. Men of liberal opinions
would induce small children to run into
sacred edifices to see whether Madame Le-
vaille was there, and to tell her that so-and-
so was in the road waiting to speak to her
— ^about potatoes, or flour, or stones, or
houses; and she would curtail her devo-
tions, come out blinking and crossing her-
self into the sunshine; ready to discuss busi-
ness matters in a calm, sensible way across
a table in the kitchen of the inn opposite.
Latterly she had stayed for a few days sev-
eral times with her son-in-law, arguing
against sorrow and misfortune with com-

IIO

The Idiots

posed face and gentle tones. Jean-Pierre
felt the convictions imbibed in the regiment
torn out of his breast — ^not by arguments,
but by facts. Striding over his fields he
thought it over. There were three of them.
Three! All alike! Why? Such things did
not happen to everybody — ^to nobody he
ever heard of. One yet — ^it might pass. But
three! All three. For ever useless, to be
fed while he lived and .... What would
become of the land when he died? This
must be seen to. He would sacrifice his
convictions. One day he told his wife —

" See what your God will do for us. PSiy
for some masses."

Susan embraced her man. He stood un-
bending, then turned on his heels and went
out. But afterwards, when a black soutane
darkened his doorway, he did not object;
even offered some cider himself to the
priest. He listened to the talk meekly;
went to mass between the two women; ac-
complished what the priest called " his re-
ligious duties" at Easter. That morning
he felt like a man who had sold his soul.
In the afternoon he fought ferociously with

III

Talcs of Unrest

an old friend and neighbour who had re-
marked that the priests had the best of it
and were now going to eat the priest-eater.
He came home dishevelled and bleeding,
and happening to catch sight of his children
(they were kept generally out of the way),
cursed and swore incoherently, banging
the table. Susan wept. Madame Levaille
sat serenely unmoved. She assured her
daughter that "It will pass"; and taking
up her thick umbrella, departed in haste to
see after a schooner she was going to load
with granite from her quarry.

A year or so afterwards the girl was born.
A girl. Jean-Pierre heard of it in the fields,
and was so upset by the news that he sat
down on the boundary wall and remained
there till the evening, instead of going home
as he was urged to do. A girl ! He felt half
cheated. However, when he got home he
was partly reconciled to his fate. One
could marry her to a good fellow — ^not to a
good for nothing, but to a fellow with some
understanding and a good pair of arms.
Besides, the rikxt may be a boy, he thought
Of course they would be all right. His new

XI9

The Idiots

credulity knew of no doubt. The ill luck
was broken. He spoke cheerily to his wife.
She was also hopeful. Three priests came
to that christening, and Madame Levaille
was godmother. The child turned out an
idiot too.

Then on market days Jean-Pierre was
seen bargaining bitterly, quarrelsome and
greedy; then getting drunk with taciturn
earnestness; then driving home in the dusk
at a rate fit for a wedding, but with a face
gloomy enough for a funeral. Sometimes
he would insist for his wife to come with
him; and they would drive in the early
morning, shaking side by side on the nar-
row seat above the helpless pig, that, with
tied legs, grunted a melancholy sigh at
every rut. The morning drives were silent ;
but in the evening, coming home, Jean-
Pierre, tipsy, was viciously muttering, and
growled at the confounded woman who
could not rear children that were like any-
body else's. Susan, holding on against the
erratic swayings of the cart, pretended not
to hear. Once, as they were driving
through Ploumar,some obscure and drunk-

Tales of Unrest

en impulse caused him to pull up sharply
opposite the church. The moon swam
amongst light white clouds. The tomb-
stones gleamed pale under the fretted shad-
ows of the trees in the churchyard. Even
the village dogs slept. Only the nightin-
gales, awake, spun out the thrill of their
song above the silence of graves. Jean-
Pierre said thickly to his wife —

" What do you think is there? **

He pointed his whip at the tower — ^in
which the big dial of the clock appeared
high in the moonlight like a pallid face
without eyes — ^and getting out carefully,
fell down at once by the wheel. He picked
himself up and climbed one by one the few
steps to the iron gate of the churchyard.
He put his face to the bars and called out
indistinctly —

"Hey there! Come out!"

" Jean ! Return ! Return ! " entreated his
wife in low tones.

He took no notice, and seemed to wait
there. The song of nightingales beat on all
sides against the high walls of the church,
and flowed back between stone crosses and

The Idiots

flat grey slabs, engraved with words of hope
and sorrow.

"Hey! Come out!" shouted Jean-
Pierre loudly.

The nightingales ceased to sing.

" Nobody? " went on Jean-Pierre. ** No- J

body there. A swindle of the crows. That's
what this is. Nobody anywhere. I despise
it Allez! Houp!"

He shook the gate with all his strength,
and the iron bars rattled with a frightful
clanging, like a chain dragged over stone
steps. A dog near-by barked hurriedly.
Jean-Pierre staggered back, and after three
successive dashes got into his cart. Susan
sat very quiet and still. He said to her with
drunken severity —

"See? Nobody. I've been made a fool!
Malheur! Somebody will pay for it. The
next one I see near the house I will lay my
whip on • . • on the black spine ... I
will. I don't want him in there ... he
only helps the carrion crows to rob poor
folk. I am a man. . . . We will see if I
can't have children like anybody else . • .
now you mind. . . . They won't be all . . .
•11 • • • we see. • • •"

Tales of Unrest

She burst out through the fingers that
hid her face —

** Don't say that, Jean; don't say that, my
man!''

He struck her a swinging blow on the
head with the back of his hand and knocked
her into the bottom of the cart, where she
crouched, thrown about lamentably by
every jolt He drove furiously, standing up,
brandishing his whip, shaking the reins
over the grey horse that galloped ponder-
ously, making the heavy harness leap upon
his broad quarters. The country rang
daunorous in the night with the irritated
barking of farm dogs, that followed the rat-
tle of wheels all along the road. A couple
of belated wayfarers had only just time to
step into the ditch. At his own gate he
caught the post and was shot out of the cart
head first. The horse went on slowly to the
door. At Susan's piercing cries the farm
hands rushed out. She thought him dead,
but he was only sleeping where he fell, and
cursed his men, who hastened to him, for
'disturbing his slumbers.

Autumn came. The clouded sky dt*»

The Idiots

tcended low upon the black contours of th*
hills; and the dead leaves danced in spiral
whirls under naked trees, till the wind, sigh-
ing profoundly, laid them to rest in the hol-
lows (A bare valleys. And from morning
till night one could see all over the land
black denuded boughs, the boughs gnarled
and twisted, as if contorted with pain, sway-
ing sadly between the wet clouds and the
soaked earth. The clear and gentle streams
of summer days rushed discoloured and
raging at the stones that barred the way to
the sea, with the fury of madness bent upon
suicide. From horizon to horizon the great
road to the sands lay between the hills in a
dull glitter of empty curves, resembling an
unnavigable river of mud.

Jean-Pierre went from field to field, mov-
ing blurred and tall in the drizzle, or strid-
ing on the crests of rises, lonely and high
upon the grey curtain of drifting clouds, as
if he had been pacing along the very edge
of the universe. He looked at the black
earth, at the earth mute and promising, at
the mysterious earth doing its work of life
m death-like stillness under the veiled sor*

117

•

Tales of Unrest

row of the sky. And it seemed to him that
to a man worse than childless there was no
promise in the fertility of fields, that from
him the earth escaped, defied him, frowned
at him like the clouds, sombre and hurried
above his head. Having to face alone his
own fields, he felt the inferiority of man who
passes away before the clod that remains.
Must he give up the. hope of having by his
side a son who would look at the tumed-up
sods with a master's eye? A man that would
think as he thought, that would feel as he
felt; a man who would be part of himself,
and yet remain to trample masterfully on
that earth when he was gone! He thought
of some distant relations, and felt savage
enough to curse them aloud. They!
Never! He turned homewards, going
straight at the roof of his dwelling visible
between the enlaced skeletons of trees. As
he swung his legs over the stile a cawing
flock of birds settled slowly on the field;
dropped down behind his back, noiseless
and fluttering, like flakes of soot.

That day Madame Levaille had gone
etrly in the afternoon to the house she had

ii8

The Idiots

near Kervanion. She had to pay some of
the men who worked in her granite quarry
there, and she went in good time because
her little house contained a shop where the
workmen could spend their wages without
the trouble of going to town. The house
stood alone amongst rocks. A lane of mud
and stones ended at the door. The sea-
winds coming ashore on Stonecutter's point,
fresh from the fierce turmoil of the waves,
howled violently at the unmoved heaps of
black boulders holding up steadily short-
armed, high crosses against the tremendous
rush of the invisible. In the sweep of gales
the sheltered dwelling stood in a calm res-
onant and disquieting, like the calm in the
centre of a hurricane. On stormy nights,
when the tide was out, the bay of Fougere,
fifty feet below the house, resembled an im-
mense black pit, from which ascended mut-
terings and sighs as if the sands down there
had been alive and complaining. At high
tide the returning water assaulted the
ledges of rock in short rushes, ending in
bursts of livid light and columns of spray,
that flew inland, stinging to death the grait

of pastures.

119

Talcs of Unrest

The darkness came from the hills, flowed
over the coast, put out the red fires of sun*
set, and went on to seaward pursuing the
retiring tide. The wind dropped with the
sun, leaving a maddened sea and a devas-
tated sky. The heavens above the house
seemed to be draped in black rags, held up
here and there by pins of fire. Madame Le«
vaille, for this evening the servant of her
own workmen, tried to induce them to de-
part " An old woman like me ought to be
in bed at this late hour,'* she good-hu-
mouredly repeated. The quarrymen drank,
asked for more. They shouted over the
table as if they had been talking across a
field. At one end four of them played cards,
banging the wood with their hard knuckles^
and swearing at every lead. One sat with
a lost gaze, humming a bar of some song,
which he repeated endlessly. Two others,
in a comer, were quarrelling confidentially
and fiercely over some woman, looking
close into one another's eyes as if they had
wanted to tear them out, but speaking in
whispers that promised violence and mur-
dw discreetly, in a venomous sibillation of

The Idiots

subdued words. The atmosphere in there
was thick enough to slice with a knife.
Three candles burning about the long room
glowed red and dull like sparks expiring in
ashes.

The slight click of the iron latch was at
that late hour as unexpected and startling
as a thunder-clap. Madame Levaille put
down a bottle she held above a liqueur
glass; the players turned their heads; the
whispered quarrel ceased; only the singer,
after darting a glance at the door, went on
humming with a stolid face. Susan ap-
peared in the doorway, stepped in, flung the
door to, and put her back against it, saying,
half aloud —

''Mother!"

Madame Levaille, taking up the bottle
again, said calmly: "Here you are, my
girl. What a state you are in! '* TTie neck
of the bottle rang on the rim of the glass,
for the old woman was startled, and the idea
that the farm had caught fire had entered
her head. She could think of no other cause
for her daughter's appearance.

Susan, soaked and muddy, stared the

isri

Tales of Unrest

whole length of the room towards the men
at the far end. Her mother asked —

"What has happened? God guard us
from misfortune I "

Susan moved her lips. No sound came.
Madame Levaille stepped up to her daugh-
ter, took her by the arm, looked into her
face.

"In God's name/' she said shakily,
" what's the matter? You have been rolling
in mud. . . . Why did you come? . • .
Where's Jean?"

The men had all got up and approached
slowly, staring with dull surprise. Madame
Levaille jerked her daughter away from the
door, swung her round upon a seat close to
the wall. Then she turned fiercely to the
men —

'^Enough of this! Out you go— you
others! I dose.**

One of them observed, looking down at
Susan coll^>sed on the seat: ** She is— one
may say— half dead.**

Madame Levaille flung the door open.

""Getout! March! " she cried, shakiag
nervously.

The Idiots

They dropped out into the nighty laugh*
tag stupidly. Outside, the two Lotharios
broke out into loud shouts. The others
tried to soothe them, all talkiiig at once.
The noise went away up the lane with the
men, who staggered together in a tight
knot, rem(Histrating with one another
foolishly.

** Speak, Susan. What is it? Speak! ''
entreated Madame LevaiUe, as soon as the
door was shut.

Susan pronounced some incomprehensi-
ble words, glaring at the table. The old
woman clapped her hands above her head,
let them drop, and stood looking at her
daughter with disconsolate eyes. Her hus-
band had been " deranged in his head *' for
a few years before he died, and now she
began to suspect her daughter was going
mad. She asked, pressingly —

**Does Jean know where you arc?
Where is Jean?**

Susan pronounced with difficulty—

•* He knows * . • he is dead.**

"What!** cried the old woman. She
eame up near, and peering at her daughter,

I as

Tahs of Unrest

repeated three times: "What do you say?
What do you say? What do you say? "

Susan sat dry-eyed and stony before
Madame Levaille, who contemplated her,
feeling a strange sense of inexplicable hor-
ror creep into the silence of the house. She
had hardly realised the news, further than
to understand that she had been brought in<
one short moment face to face with some-
thing unexpected and final. It did not even
occur to her to ask for any explanation.
She thought: accident — ^terrible accident-
blood to the head — ^fell down a trap door in
the loft. . . . She remained there, distract-
ed and mute, blinking her old eyes.

Suddenly, Susan said —

" I have killed him/'

For a moment the mother stood still, al-
most unbreathing, but with composed face.
The next second she burst out into a
shout —

" You miserable madwoman . . . they
will cut your neck. . . ."

She fancied the gendarmes entering the
house, saying to her: "We want your
'daughter; give her up:*' the gendarmes

184

The Idiots

with the severe, hard faces of men on duty.
She knew the brigadier well — ^an old friend,
familiar and respectful, saying heartily/' To
your good health, madame ! " before lifting
to his lips the small glass of cognac— out of
the special bottle she kept for friends. And
now! • . . She was losing her head She
rushed here and there, as if looking for
something urgently needed — ^gave that up,
stood stock still in the middle of the room,
and screamed at her daughter —

"Why? Say! Say! Why?"

The other seemed to leap out of her
strange apathy.

" Do you think I am made of stone? ''
she shouted back, striding towards her
mother.

"No! It's impossible. . • •'' said Ma-
dame Levaille, in a convinced tone.

" You go and see, mother," retorted Su-
san, looking at her with blazing eyes.
" There's no mercy in heaven — ^no justice.
No! ... I did not know. • . . Do you
think I have no heart? Do you think I
have never heard people jeering at me, pity-
ing me, wondering at me? Do you know

125

Tales of Unrest

how some of them were calling me? The
mother of idiots — that was my nickname 1
And my children never would know me»
never speak to me. They would know noth-
ing; neither men — ^nor God Haven't I
prayed! But the Mother of God herself
would not hear me. A mother! . • . Who
is accursed — ^I,or the man who is dead? Eh?
Tell me. I took care of myself. Do you
think I would defy the anger of God and
have myhouse full of those things — that are
worse than animals who know the hand that
feeds them? Who blasphemed in the night
at the very church door? Was it I? • • •
I only wept and prayed for mercy • • • and
I fed the curse at every moment of the day
— ^I see it round me from morning to night
. • • I've got to keep them alive — to take
care of my misfortune and shame. And he
would come. I begged him and Heaven
for mercy. . • • No! . . . Then we shall
see. . . • He came this evening. I thought
to myself: 'Ah! again!' • • • I had my
long scissors. I heard him shouting. • • •
1 3aw him near. ... I must — ^must I? . • •
Then take! . . . And I struck him in the

136

The Idiots

throat above the breast-bone. ... I never
heard him even sigh. ... I left him stand-
ing. • • • It was a minute ago. How did I
come here? ^

Madame Levaille shivered. A wave of
cold ran down her back, down her fat arms
under her tight sleeves, made her stamp
gently where she stood. Quivers ran over
the broad cheeks, across the thin lips, ran
amongst the wrinkles at the comers of her
steady old eyes. She stammered —

" You wicked woman — ^you disgrace me.
But there! You always resembled your
father. What do you think will become of
you ... in the other world? In this • • .
Oh misery 1 "

She was very hot now. She felt burning
inside. She wrung her perspiring hands-—
and suddenly, starting in great haste, began
to look for her big shawl and umbrella,
feverishly, never once glancing at her
daughter, who stood in the middle of the
room following her with a gaze distracted
and cold.

''Nothing worse than in this/' said
Susan.

i«7

Talcs of Unrest

Her mother, umbrella in hand and trail*
ing the shawl over the floor, groaned pro-
foundly.

*' I must go to the priest/' she burst out
passionately. " I do not know whether you
even speak the truth! You are a horrible
woman. They will find you anywhere.
You may stay here— or go. There is no
room for you in this world."

Ready now to depart, she yet wandered
aimlessly about the room, putting the bot-
tles on the shelf, trying to fit with trembling
hands the covers on cardboard boxes.
Whenever the real sense of what she had
heard emerged for a second from the haze
of her thoughts she would fancy that some-
thing had exploded in her brain without^
unfortunately, bursting her head to pieces
— ^which would have been a relief. She
blew the candles out one by one without
knowing it, and was horribly startled by the
darkness. She fell on a bench and began to
whimper. After a while she ceased, and sat
listening to the breathing of her daughter,
whom she could hardly see, still and up-
right, giving no other sign of life. She was

The Idiots

becoming old rapidly at last, during those
minutes. She spoke in tones unsteady, cut
about by the rattle of teeth, like one shaken
by a deadly cold fit of ague.

" I wish you had died little. I will nevet
dare to show my old head in the sunshine
again. There are worse misfortunes than
idiot children. I wish you had been bom
to me simple — ^like your own. . . ."

She saw the figure of her daughter pass
before the faint and livid clearness of a win-
dow. Then it appeared in the doorway for
a second, and the door swung to with a
clang. Madame Levaille, as if awakened
by the noise from a long nightmare, rushed
out.

" Susan! " she shouted from the doorstep.

She heard a stone roll a long time down
the declivity of the rocky beach above the
sands. She stepped forward cautiously,
one hand on the wall of the house, and
peered down into the smooth darkness of
the empty bay. Once again she cried —

" Susan! You will kill yourself there.*'

The stone had taken its last leap in the
dark, and she heard nothing now. A sud-

139

Tales of Unrest

den thought seemed to strangle her, and she
called no more. She turned her back upon
the black silence of the pit and went up the
lane towards Ploumar,stumblingalongwith
sombre determination, as if she had started
on a desperate journey that would last, per-
haps, to the end of her life. A sullen and
periodic clamour of waves rolling over reefs
followed her far inland between the high
hedges sheltering the gloomy solitude of
the fields.

Susan had run out, swerving sharp to the
left at the door, and on the edge of the slope
crouched down behind a boulder. A dis-
lodged stone went on downwards, rattling
as it leaped. When Madame Levaille called
out, Susan could have, by stretching her
hand, touched her mother's skirt, had she
had the courage to move a limb. She saw
the old woman go away, and she remained
still, closing her eyes and pressing her side
to the hard and rugged surface of the rock.
After a while a familiar face with fixed eyes
and an open mouth became visible in the
intense obscurity amongst the boulders.
She uttered a low cry and stood up. The

130

The Idiots

face vanished^ leaving her to gasp and
shiver alone in the wilderness of stone
heaps. But as soon as she had crouched
down again to rest, with her head against
the rock, the face returned, came very near,
appeared eager to finish the speech that had
been cut short by death, only a moment ago.
She scrambled quickly to her feet and said:
" Go away, or I will do it again." The
thing wavered, swung to the right, to the
left She moved this way and that, stepped
back, fancied herself screaming at it, and
was appalled by the unbroken stillness of
the night. She tottered on the brink, felt
the steep declivity under her feet, and
rushed down blindly to save herself from
a headlong fall. The shingle seemed to
wake up; the pebbles began to roll before
her, pursued her from above, raced down
with her on both sides, rolling past with an
increasing clatter. In the peace of the night
the noise grew, deepening to a rumour, con-
tinuous and violent, as if the whole semicir-
cle of the stony beach had started to tumble
down into the bay. Susan's feet hardly
touched the slope that seemed to run down

131

Tales of Unrest

with her. At the bottom she stumbled, shot
forward, throwing her arms out, and fell
heavily. She jumped up at once and turned
swiftly to look back, her clenched hands
full of sand she had clutched in her fall.
The face was there, keeping its distance,
visible in its own sheen that made a pale
stain in the night She shouted, " Go
away " — she shouted at it with pain, with
fear, with all the rage of that useless stab
that could not keep him quiet, keep him
out of her sight. What did he want now?
He was dead. Dead men have no children.
Would he never leave her alone? She
shrieked at it — ^waved her outstretched
hands. She seemed to feel the breath of
parted lips, and, with a long cry of discour-
agement, fled across the level bottom of the
bay.

She ran lightly, unaware of any effort of
her body. High sharp rocks that, when the
bay is full, show above the glittering plain
of blue water like pointed towers of sub-
merged churches, glided past her, rushing
to the land at a tremendous pace. To the
left, in the distance, she could see some-

133

The Idiots

thing shining: a broad disc of light in
which narrow shadows pivoted round the
centre like the spokes of a wheel. She
heard a voice calling, " Hey! There! " and
answered with a wild scream. So, he could
call yet! He was calling after her to stop.
Never! . . . She tore through the night,
past the startled group of seaweed-gather-
ers who stood round their lantern paralysed
with fear at the unearthly screech coming
from that fleeing shadow. The men leaned
on their pitchforks staring fearfully. A
woman fell on her knees, and, crossing her-
self, began to pray aloud. A little girl with
her ragged skirt full of slimy seaweed began
to sob despairingly, lugging her soaked
burden close to the man who carried the
light. Somebody said: "The thing ran
out towards the sea." Another voice ex-
claimed: "And the sea is coming back!
Look at the spreading puddles. Do you
hear — you woman — there ! Get up ! "
Several voices cried together. " Yes, let us
be offl Let the accursed thing go to the
sea! " They moved on, keeping close round
the light. Suddenly a man swore loudly*

133

Talcs of Unrest

He would go and see what was the matter.
It had been a woman's voice. He would
go. There were shrill protests from women
— but his high form detached itself from the
group and went off running. They sent an
unanimous call of scared voices after him.
A word, insulting and mocking, came back,
thrown at them through darkness. A
woman moaned. An old man said gravely:
" Such things ought to be left alone." They
went on slower, shufHing in the yielding
sand and whispering to one another that
Millot feared nothing, having no religion,
but that it would end badly some day.

Susan met the incoming tide by the
Raven islet and stopped, panting, with her
feet in the water. She heard the murmur
and felt the cold caress of the sea, and,
calmer now, could see the sombre and con-
fused mass of the Raven on one side and
on the other the long white streak of Mo-
lene sands that are left high above the dry
bottom of Fougere Bay at every ebb. She
turned round and saw far away, along the
starred background of the sky, the ragged
outline of the coast. Above it, nearly {ac«

134

The Idiots

ing her, appeared the tower of Ploumar
Church; a slender and tall pyramid shoot*
ing up dark and pointed into the clustered
glitter of the stars. She felt strangely calm.
She knew where she was, and began to re-
member how she came there — and why.
She peered into the smooth obscurity near
her. She was alone. There was nothing
there; nothing near her, either living or
dead.

The tide was creeping in quietly, putting
out long impatient arms of strange rivulets
that ran towards the land between ridges of
sand. Under the night the pools grew big-
ger with mysterious rapidity, while the
great sea, yet far off, thundered in a regular
rhythm along the indistinct line of the hori-
zon. Susan splashed her way back for a
few yards without being able to get clear of
the water that murmured tenderly all
around and, suddenly, with a spiteful gur-
gle, nearly took her off her feet. Her heart
thumped with fear. This place was too big
and too empty to die in. To-morrow they
would do with her what they liked. But
before she died she must tell them — ^tell the

135

Tales of Unrest

gentlemen in black clothes that there are
things no woman can bear. She must ex-
plain how it happened. . . . She splashed
through a pool, getting wet to the waist, too
preoccupied to care. . • . She must ex-
plain. *' He came in the same way as ever
and said, just so: ' Do you think I am go-
ing to leave the land to those people from
Morbihan that I do not know? Do you?
We shall seel Come along, you creature oi
mischance 1 ' And he put his arms out.
Then, Messieurs, I said: 'Before God —
never! ' And he said, striding at me with
open palms: * There is no God to hold me I
Do you understand, you useless carcase. I
will do what I like.' And he took me by
the shoulders. Then I, Messieurs, called to
God for help, and next minute, while he was
shaking me, I felt my long scissors in my
hand. His shirt was unbuttoned, and, by
the candle-light, I saw the hollow of his
throat. I cried: 'LetgoT He was crush-
ing my shoulders. He was strong, my man
was! Then I thought: No! • • • Must I?
. • • Then take I — ^and I struck in the hol-
low place. I never saw him fall. Never I

136

The Idiots

Never! . . . Never saw him fall. . . . The
old father never turned his head. He is deaf
and childish, gentlemen. . . . Nobody saw
him fall. I ran out . . . Nobody saw. . . ."

She had been scrambling amongst the
boulders of the Raven and now found her-
self, all out of breath, standing amongst the
heavy shadows of the rocky islet. The
Raven is connected with the main land by a
natural pier of immense and slippery stones.
She intended to return home that way. Was
he still standing there? At home. Home!
Four idiots and a corpse. She must go
back and explain. Anybody would under-
stand. • . •

Below her the night or the sea seemod to
pronounce distinctly —

*' Aha ! I see you at last ! "

She started, slipped, fell; and without at-
tempting to rise, listened, terrified. She
heard heavy breathing, a clatter of wooden
clogs. It stopped.

"Where the devil did you pass?" said
an invisible man, hoarsely.

She held her breath. She recognised the
voice. She had not seen him fall. Wa« b*^

137

• •

Talcs of Unrest

ptursalng her there dead, or peifaqis
alive?

She lost her head. She cried from the
crevice where she lay huddled, "Never,
never I"

''Ahl You are still there. You led me a
line dance. Wait, my beauty, I must see
how you look after all this. You wait • • .*

Millot was stumbling, laughing, swear-
ing meaninglessly out of pure satisfaction,
pleased with himself for having run down
that fly-by-night. " As if there were such
things as ghosts! Bah I It took an old
African soldier to show those clodhoppers.
. . . But it was curious. Who the devil was
she? "

Susan listened, crouching. He was com-
ing for her, this dead man. There was no
escape. What a noise he made amongst
the stones. . . . She saw his head rise up,
then the shoulders. He was tall — ^her own
man! His long arms waved about, and it
was his own voice sounding a little strange
. . . because of the scissors. She scram-
bled out quickly, rushed to the edge of the
causeway, and turned round. The man

138

The Idiots

stood still on a high stone, detaching him-
self in dead black on the glitter of the sky.

" Where are you going to? " he called
roughly.

She answered^ " Home ! " and watched
him intensely. He made a striding, clumsy
leap on to another boulder, and stopped
again, balancing himself, then said —

"Ha! ha! Well, I am going with you.
It's the least I can do. Ha! ha! ha! ''

She stared at him till her eyes seemed to
become glowing coals that burned deep into
her brain, and yet she was in mortal fear of
making out the well-known features. Be-
low her the sea lapped softly against the
rock with a splash, continuous and gentle.

The man said, advancing another step—

" I am coming for you. What do you
think?"

She trembled. Coming for her! There
was no escape, no peace, no hope. She
looked round despairingly. Suddenly the
whole shadowy coast, the blurred islets, the
heaven itself, swayed about twice, then
came to a rest She closed her eyes and
shouted —

>39

Tales of Unrest

■

** Can't you wait till I am dead I ''

She was shaken by a furious hate for that
shade that pursued her in this world, un-
appeased even by death in its longing for
an heir that would be like other people'^
children.

" Hey! What? " said Millot, keeping his
distance prudently. He was saying to him-
self: " Look out! Some lunatic. An ac-
cident happens soon."

She went on, wildly —

" I want to live. To live alone — for a
week — for a day. I must explain to them.
... I would tear you to pieces, I would kill
you twenty times over rather than let you
touch me while I live. How many times
must I kill you — ^you blasphemer! Satan
sends you here. I am damned too! "

" Come," said Millot, alarmed and con-
ciliating. " I am perfectly alive! . . . Oh,
my God!"

She had screamed, " Alive! " and at once
vanished before his eyes, as if the islet itself
had swerved aside from under her feet.
Millot rushed forward, and fell flat with his
chin over the edge. Far below he saw the

140

t.. I

The Idiots

water whitened by her struggles, and heard
one shrill cry for help that seemed to dart
upwards along the perpendicular face of the
rock, and soar past, straight into the high
and impassive heaven.

Madame Levaille sat, dry-eyed, on the
short grass of the hill side, with her thick
legs stretched out, and her old feet turned
up in their black doth shoes. Her clogs
stood near by, and further oS the umbrella
lay on the withered sward like a weapon
dropped from the grasp of a vanquished
warrior. The Marquis of Chavanes, on
horseback, one gloved hand on thigh,
looked down at her as she got up labori-
ously, with groans. On the narrow track
of the seaweed-carts four men were carry-
ing inland Susan's body on a hand-barrow,
while several others straggled listlessly be-
hind. Madame Levaille looked after the
procession. " Yes, Monsieur le Marquis,**
she said dispassionately, in her usual calm
tone of a reasonable old woman. ** There
are unfortunate people on this earth. I had

X41

Tales of Unrest

only one child. Only one! And they won^
bury her in consecrated ground! "

Her eyes filled suddenly, and a short
shower of tears rolled down the broad
cheeks. She pulled the shawl close about
her. The Marquis leaned slightly over in
his saddle, and said —

" It is very saA You have all my sympa-
thy. I shall speak to the Cure. She was
unquestionably insane, and the fall was ac-
cidental. Millot says so distinctly. Good-
day, Madame."

And he trotted oS, thinking to himsdf :
I must get this old woman appointed guar-
dian of those idiots, and administrator of
the farm. It would be much better than
having here one of those other Bacadous,
probably a red republican, corrupting my
commune.

«4«

An Outpost of Progress

*•-

An Outpost of Progress

THERE were two white men in charge of
* the trading station. Kayerts, the chief,
was short and fat; Carlier, the assistant, was
tall, with a large head and a very broad
trunk perched upon a long pair of thin legs.
The third man on the staff was a Sierra Le-
one nigger, who maintained that his name
was Henry Price. However, for some rea-
son or other, the natives down the river had
given him the name of Makola, and it stuck
to him through all his wanderings about the
country. He spoke English and French
with a warbling accent, wrote a beautiful
hand, understood bookkeeping, and cher-
ished in his innermost heart the worship of
evil spirits. His wife was a negress from
Loanda, very large and very noisy. Three
children rolled about in sunshine before the
lo I4S

Tales of Unrest

door of his low, shed-like dwelling. Ma-
kola, taciturn and impenetrable, despised the
two white men. He had charge of a small
clay storehouse with a dried-grass roof, and
pretended to keep a correct account of
beads, cotton cloth, red kerchiefs, brass
wire, and other trade goods it contained.
Besides the storehouse and Makda's hut,
there was only one large building in the
cleared ground of the station. It was built
neatly of reeds, with a verandah on all the
four sides. There were three rooms in it.
The one in the middle was the living-room,
and had two rough tables and a few stools
in it. The other two were the bedrooms for
the white men. Each had a bedstead and a
mosquito net for all furniture. The plank
floor was littered with the belongings of the
white men; open half-empty boxes, torn
wearing apparel, old boots; all the things
dirty, and all the things broken, that ac-
cumulate mysteriously round untidy men.
There was also another dwelling-place
some distance away from the buildings. In
it, under a tall cross much out of the per-
pendicular, slept the man who had seen the

146

An Outpost of Progress

beginning of all this ; who had planned and
had watched the construction of this outpost
of progress. He had been, at home, an un-
successful painter who, weary of pursuing
fame on an empty stomach, had gone out
there through high protections. He had
been the first chief of that station. Makola
had watched the energetic artist die of fever
in the just finished house with his usual
kind of " I told you so " indifference. Then,
for a time, he dwelt alone with his family,
his account books, and the Evil Spirit that
rules the lands under the equator. He got
on very well with his god. Perhaps he had
propitiated him by a promise of more white
men to play with, by and by. At any rate
the director of the Great Trading Company,
coming up in a steamer that resembled an
enormous sardine box with a flat-roofed
shed erected on it, found the station in good
order, and Makola as usual quietly diligent.
The director had the cross put up over the
first agent's grave, and appointed Kayerts
to the post. Cariier was told oflF as second
in charge. The director was a man ruth-
Itts and efficient, who at times, but very im-

Talcs of Unrest

perceptibly, indulged in grim humour. He
made a speech to Kayerts and Carlier,
pointing out to them the promising aspect
of their station. The nearest trading-post
was about three hundred miles away. It
was an exceptional opportunity for them to
distinguish themselves and to earn percent-
ages on the trade. This appointment was a
favour done to beginners. Kayerts >yas
moved almost to tears by his director's
kindness. He would, he said, by doing his
best, try to justify the flattering confidence,
&c., &c. Kayerts had been in the Adminis-
tration of the Telegraphs, and knew how to
express himself correctly, Carlier, an ex-
non-commissioned officer of cavalry in an
army guaranteed from harm by several Eu-
ropean Powers, was less impressed. If there
were commissions to get, so much the bet-
ter; and, trailing a sulky glance over the
river, the forests, the impenetrable bush
that seemed to cut off the station from the
rest of the world, he muttered between his
teeth, " We shall see, very soon."

Next day, some bales of cotton goods
and a few cases of provisions having been

148

An Outpost of Progress

thrown on shore, the sardine-box steamer
went off, not to return for another six
months. On the deck the director touched
his cap to the two agents, who stood on the
bank waving their hats, and turning to an
old servant of the Company on his passage
to headquarters, said, '' Look at those two
imbeciles. They must be mad at home to
send me such specimens. I told those fel-
lows to plant a vegetable garden, build new
storehouses and fences, and construct a
landing-stage. I bet nothing will be done!
They won't know how to begin. I always
thought the station on this river useless, and
they just fit the station! "

" They will form themselves there," said
the old stager with a quiet smile.

" At any rate, I am rid of them for six
months," retorted the director.

The two men watched the steamer round
the bend, then, ascending arm in arm the
slope of the bank, returned to the station.
They had been in this vast and dark country
only a very short time, and as yet always in
the midst of other white men, under the eye
and guidance of their superiors. And now,

149

Tales of Unrest

dull as they were to the subtle influences of
surroundings, they felt themselves very
much alone, when suddenly left unassisted
to face the wilderness; a wilderness ren-
dered more strange, more incomprehensi-
ble by the mysterious glimpses of the vig-
orous life it contained. They were two
perfectly insignificant and incapable indi-
viduals, whose existence is only rendered
possible through the high organisation of
civilised crowds. Few men realise that their
life, the very essence of their character, their
capabilities and their audacities, are only
the expression of their belief in the safety of
their surroundings. The courage, the com-
posure, the confidence; the emotions and
principles; every great and every insignifi-
cant thought belongs not to the individual
but to the crowd : to the crowd that believes
blindly in the irresistible force of its insti-
tutions and of its morals, in the power of
its police and of its opinion. But the con-
tact with pure unmitigated savagery, with
primitive nature and primitive man, brings
sudden and profound trouble into the heart.
To the sentiment ot being alone of one's

ISO

An Outpost of Progress

kind, to the clear perception of the lontli*
ness of one's thoughts, of one's sensations
— ^to the negation of the habitual, which is
safe, there is added the affirmation of the un-
usual, which is dangerous; a suggestion of
things vague, uncontrollable, and repulsive,
whose discomposing intrusion excites the
imagination and tries the civilised nerves
of the foolish and the wise alike.

Kayerts and Carlier walked arm in arm,
drawing close to one another as children do
in the dark; and they had the same, not al-
together unpleasant, sense of danger which
one half suspects to be imaginary. They
chatted persistently in familiar tones. " Our
station is prettily situated," said one. The
other assented with enthusiasm, enlarging
volubly on the beauties of the situation.
Then they passed near the grave. " Poor
devil ! " said Kayerts. " He died of fever,
didn't he?" muttered Carlier, stopping
short. " Why," retorted Kayerts, with in-
dignation, " I've been told that the fellow
exposed himself recklessly to the sun. The
climate here, everybody says, is not at all
worse than at home, as long as you keep

151

Talcs of Unrest

out of the sun. Do you hear that, Carlier?
I am chief here, and my orders are that you
should not expose yourself to the sun I"'
He assumed his superiority jocularly, but
his meaning was serious* The idea that he
would, perhaps, have to bury Carlier and
remain alone, gave him an inward shiver.
He felt suddenly that this Carlier was more
precious to him here, in the centre of Africa,
than a brother could be an}rwhere else.
Carlier, entering into the spirit of the thing,
made a military salute and answered in a
brisk tone, " Your orders shall be attended
to, chief!" Then he burst out laughing,
slapped Kayerts on the back, and shouted,
" We shall let life run easily here I Just sit
still and gather in the ivory those savages
will bring/ This country has its good
points, after all! " They both laughed
loudly while Carlier thought: That poor
Kayerts; he is so fat and unhealthy. It
would be awful if I had to bury him here.
He is a man I respect. . . . Before they
reached the verandah of their house they
called one another " my dear fellow."
The first day they were very active, pot*

152

An Outpost of Progress

tering about with hammers and nails and
red calico, to put up curtains^ make their
house habitable and pretty; resolved to set-
tle down comfortably to their new life. For
them an impossible task. To grapple ef-
fectually with even purely material prob-
lems requires more serenity of mind and
more lofty courage than people generally
imagine. No two beings could have been
more unfitted for such a struggle. Society,
not from any tenderness, but because of its
strange needs, had taken care of those two
men, forbidding them all independent
thought, all initiative, all departure from
routine; and forbidding it under pain of
death. They could only live on condition
of being machines. And now, released from
the fostering care of men with pens behind
the ears, or of men with gold lace on the
sleeves, they were like those lifelong prison-
ers who, liberated after many years, do not
know what use to make of their freedom.
They did not know what use to make of
their faculties, being both, through want of
practice, incapable of independent thought.
At the end of two months Kayerts often

153

Tales of Unrest

would say, " If it was not for my Mdie, you
wouldn't catch me here." Melie was his
daughter. He had thrown up his post in
the Administration of the Telegraphs,
though he had been for seventeen years per*
fectly happy there, to earn a dowry for his
girl. His wife was dead, and the child was
being brought up by Jiis sisters. He re-
gretted the streets, the pavements, the
caf&, his friends of many years; all the
things he used to see, day after day; all the
thoughts suggested by familiar things — ^the
thoughts effortless, monotonous, and sooth-
ing of a Government clerk; he regretted all
the gossip, the small enmities, the mild
venom, and the little jokes of Government
offices. " If I had had a decent brother-in-
law/* Carlier would remark, " a fellow with
a heart, I would not be here." He had left
the army and had made himself so obnox-
ious to his family by his ladness and impu-^
dence, that an exasperated brother-in-law
had made superhuman efforts to procure
him an appointment in the Company as a
second-class agent. Having not a penny in
the world, he was compelled to accept

IS4

An Outpost of Progress

means of livelihood as soon as it became
quite clear to him that there was nothing
more to squeeze out of his relations. He,
like Kayerts, regretted his old life. He re-
gretted the clink of sabre and spurs on a fine
afternoon, the barrack-room witticisms, the
girls of garrison towns; but, besides, he
had also a sense of grievance. He was evi-
dently a much ill-used man. This made
him moody, at times. But the two men
got on well together in the fellowship of
their stupidity and laziness. Together they
did nothing, absolutely nothing, and en-
joyed the sense of the idleness for which
they were paid. And in time they came to
feel something resembling affection for one
another.

They lived like blind men in a large room,
aware only of what came in contact with
them (and of that only imperfectly), but
unable to see the general aspect of things.
The river, the forest, all the great land
throbbing with life, were like a great empti-
ness. Even the brilliant sunshine disclosed
nothing intelligible. Things appeared and
disappeared before their eyes in an uncon-

15s

Tales of Unrest

nected and aimless kind of way. The river
seemed to come from nowhere and flow no-
whither. It flowed through a void. Out of
that void, at times, came canoes, and men
with spears in their hands would suddenly
crowd the yard of the station. They were
naked, glossy black, ornamented with
snowy shells and glistening brass wire, per*
feet of limb. They made an uncouth, bab-
bling noise when they spoke, moved in a
stately manner, and sent quick, wild glances
out of their startled, never-resting eyes.
Those warriors would squat in long rows,
four or more deep, before the verandah,
while their chiefs bargained for hours with
Makola over an elephant tusk. Kayerts sat
on his chair and looked down on the pro-
ceedings, understanding nothing. He
stared at them with his round blue eyes,
called out to Carlier, " Here, look! look at
that fellow there — ^and that other one, to
the left Did you ever see such a face? Oh,
the funny brute! "

Carlier, smoking native tobacco in a
short wooden pipe, would swagger up
twirling his moustaches, and, surveying the

IS6

An Outpost of Progress

warriors with haughty indulgence, would
say —

''Fine animals. Brought any bone?
Yes? It*s not any too soon. Look at the
muscles of that fellow — ^third from the end.
I wouldn't care to get a punch on the nose
from him. Fine arms, but legs no good be-
low the knee. Couldn't make cavalry men
of them." And after glancing down com-
placently at his own shanks, he always con-
cluded: "Pah! Don't they stink! You,
Makola! Take that herd over to the fetish "
(the storehouse was in every station called
the fetish, perhaps because of the spirit of
civilisation it contained) ''and give them
up some of the rubbish you keep there.
I'd rather see it full of bone than full of
rags."

Kayerts approved.

" Yes, yes 1 Go and finish that palaver
over there, Mr. Makola. I will come round
when you are ready, to weigh the tusk. We
must be careful." Then, turning to his com-
panion: "This is the tribe that lives down
the river; they are rather aromatic. I re-
member, they had been once before here.

«S7

Talcs of Unrest

D'ye hear that row? What a fellow has got
to put up with in this dog of a country! My
head is split."

Such profitable visits were rare. For
days the two pioneers of trade and progress
would look on their empty courtyard in the
vibrating brilliance of vertical sunshine.
Below the high bank, the silent river flowed
on glittering and steady. On the sands in
the middle of the stream, hippos and alli-
gators sunned themselves side by side.
And stretching away in all directions, sur-
rounding the insignificant cleared spot of
the trading post, immense forests, hiding
fateful complications of fantastic life, lay in
the eloquent silence of mute greatness. The
two men understood nothing, cared for
nothing but for the passage of days that
separated them from the steamer's return.
Their predecessor had left some torn books.
They took up these wrecks of novels, and,
as they had never read anything of the kind
before, they were surprised and amused.
Then during long days there were inter-
minable and silly discussions about plots
and personages. In the centre of Africa

iS8

An Outpost of Progress

they made the acquaintance of Richelieu
and of d'Artagnan, of Hawk's Eye and
of Father Goriot, and of many other
people. All these imaginary personages
became subjects for gossip as if they
had been living friends. They discounted
their virtues, suspected their motives, de-
cried their successes; were scandalised at
their duplicity or were doubtful about their
courage. The accounts of crimes filled
them with indignation, while tender or
pathetic passages moved them deeply. Car-
lier cleared his throat and said in a sol-
dierly voice, " What nonsense! " ICayerts,
his round eyes suffused with tears, his
fat cheeks quivering, rubbed his bald
head, and declared, "This is a splendid
book. I had no idea there were such clever
fellows in the world." They also found
some old copies of a home paper. That
print discussed what it was pleased to call
" Our Colonial Expansion " in high-flown
language. It spoke much of the rights and
duties of civilisation, of the sacredness of
the civilising work, and extolled the merits
of those who went about bringing light, and

Tales of Unrest

faith, and commerce to the dark places of
the earth. Carlier and Kayerts read, won-
dered, and began to think better of them-
selves. Carlier said one evening, waving
his hand about, '' In a hundred years, there
will be perhaps a town here. Quays, and
warehouses, and barracks, and — and— bill-
iard-rooms. Civilisation, my boy, and
virtue — ^and all. And then, chaps will read
that two good fellows, Kayerts and Carlier,
were the first civilised men to live in this
very spot I " Kayerts nodded, " Yes, it is a
consolation to think of that." They seemed
to forget their dead predecessor; but, early
one day, Carlier went out and replanted the
cross firmly. " It used to make me squint
whenever I walked that way," he explained
to Kayerts over the morning coffee. ** It
made me squint, leaning over so much. So
I just planted it upright And solid, I
promise you ! I suspended myself with both
hands to the cross-piece. Not a move. Oh,
I did that properly."

At times Gobila came to see them. Go-
bila was the chief of the neighbouring vil-
lages. He was a grey-headed savage, thin

1 60

An Outpost of Progress

and blacky with a white cloth round his
loins and a mangy panther skin hanging
over his back. He came up with long
strides of his skeleton legs, swinging a staff
as tall as himself, and^ entering the common
room of the station, would squat on his
heels to the left of the door. There he sat,
watching Kayerts, and now and then mak-
ing a speech which the other did not under-
stand. Kayerts, without interrupting his
occupation, would from time to time say in
a friendly manner: '' How goes it, you old
image? " and they would smile at one an-
other. The two whites had a liking for that
old and incomprehensible creature, and
called him Father Gobila. Gobila's man-
ner was paternal, and he seemed really to
love all white men. They all appeared to
him very young, indistinguishably alike
(except for stature), and he knew that they
were all brothers, and also immortal. The
death of the artist, who was the first white
man whom he knew intimately, did not dis-
turb this belief, because he was firmly con-
viQced that the white stranger had pre*
tended to die and got himself buried for
II i6i

Tales of Unrest

some mysterious purpose of his own, into
which it was useless to inquire. Perhaps it
was his way of going home to his own
country? At any rate, these were his
brothers, and he transferred his absurd af-
fection to them. They returned it in a way.
Carlier slapped him on the back, and reck-
lessly struck off matches for his amusement.
Kayerts was always ready to let him have
a sniff at the ammonia bottle. In short,
they behaved just like that other white
creature that had hidden itself in a hole in
the ground. Gobila ccmsidered them atten-
tively. Perhaps they were the same being
with the other — or one of them was. He
couldn't decide — clear up that mystery; but
he remained always very friendly. In con-
sequence of that friendship the women of
Gobila's village walked in single file
through the reedy grass, bringing every
morning to the station, fowls, and sweet po-'
tatoes, and palm wine, and sometimes a
goat. The Company never provisions the
stations fully, and the agents required those
local supplies to live. They had them
through the good-will of Gobila, and lived

163

An Outpost of Progress

well. Now and then one of them had a bout
of fever, and the other nursed him with gen-
tle devotion. They did not think much of
it It left them weaker, and their appear-
ance changed for the worse. Carlier was
hollow-eyed and irritable. Kayerts showed
a drawn, flabby face above the rotundity of
his stomach, which gave him a weird as-
pect. But being constantly together, they
did not notice the change that took place
gradually in their appearance, and also in
their dispositions.

Five months passed in that way.

Then, one morning, as Kayerts and Car-
Ker, lounging in their chairs under the ve-
randah, talked about the approaching visit
of the steamer, a knot of armed men came
out of the forest and advanced towards the
station. They were strangers to that part
of the country. They were tall, slight,
draped classically from neck to heel in blue
fringed cloths, and carried percussion mus-
kets over their bare right shoulders. Ma-
kola showed signs of excitement, and ran
out of the storehouse (where he spent all
his days) to meet these visitors. They came

163

Tales of Unrest

into the courtyard and looked about them
with steady, scornful glances. Their leader,
a powerful and determined-looking negro
with bloodshot eyes, stood in front of the
verandah and made a long speech. He
gesticulated much, and ceased very sud-
denly.

There was something in his intonation,
in the sounds of the long sentences he used,
that startled the two whites. It was like a
reminiscence of something not exactly fa-
miliar, and yet resembling the speech ot
civilised men. It sounded like one of those
impossible languages which sometimes we
hear in our dreams.

" What lingo is that? '* said the amazed
Carlier. " In the first moment I fancied the
fellow was going to speak French. Any-
way, it is a different kind of gibberish to
what we ever heard."

"Yes," replied Kayerts. "Hey, Makola,
what does he say? Where do they come
from? Who are they?"

But Makola, who seemed to be standing
on hot bricks, answered hurriedly, " I don't
know. They come from very far. Perhaps

164

An Outpost of Progress

Mrs. Price will understand. They are per*
haps bad men."

The leader, after waiting for a while, said
something sharfdy to Makola, who shook
his head. Then the man, after looking
round, noticed Makola's hut and walked
over there. The next moment Mrs. Makola
was heard speaking with great volubility.
The other strangers — ^they were six in all —
strolled about with an air of ease, put their
heads through the door of the store-room,
congregated round the grave, pointed
understandingly at the cross, and generally
made themselves at home.

''I don't like those chaps — and, I say,
Kayerts, they must be from the coast;
the/ve got firearms,'' observed the saga-
cious Carlier.

Kayerts also did not like those chaps.
They both, for the first time, became aware
that they lived in conditions where the un-
usual may be dangerous, and that there was
no power on earth outside of themselves to
stand between them and the unusual. They
became uneasy, went in and loaded their re-
volvers. Kayerts said, "We must order

i6s

Tales of Unrest

Makola to tell them to go away before
dark."

The strangers left in the afternoon, after
eating a meal prepared for them by Mrs.
Makola. The immense woman was excited,
and talked much with the visitors. She rat-
tled away shrilly, pointing here and point-
ing there at the forests and at the river. Ma-
kola sat apart and watched. At times he
got up and whispered to his wife. He ac-
companied the strangers across the ravine
at the back of the station-ground, and re-
turned slowly looking very thoughtful.
When questioned by the white men he was
very strange, seemed not to understand,
seemed to have forgotten French — seemed
to have forgotten how to speak altogether.
Kayerts and Carlier agreed that the nigger
had had too much palm wine.

There was some talk about keeping a
watch in turn, but in the evening everything
seemed so quiet and peaceful that they re-
tired as usual. All night they were dis-
turbed by a lot of drumming in the villages.
A deep, rapid roll near by would be followed
by another far off — then all ceased. Soon

i66

An Outpost of Progress

short appeals would rattle out here and
there, then all mingle together, increase,
become vigorous and sustained, would
spread out over the forest, roll through the
night, unbroken and ceaseless, near and far,
as if the whole land had been one immense
drum booming out steadily an appeal to
heaven. And through the deep and tre-
mendous noise sudden yells that resembled
snatches of songs from a mad-house darted
shrill and high in discordant jets of sound
which seemed to rush far above the earth
and drive all peace from under the stars.

Carlier and Kayerts slept badly. They
both thought they had heard shots fired
during the night — ^but they could not ag^ee
as to the direction. In the morning Ma-
kola was gone somewhere. He returned
about noon with one of yesterday's stran-
gers, and eluded all Kayerts' attempts to
close with him : had become deaf appar-
ently. Kayerts wondered. Carlier, who
had been fishing off the bank, came back
and remarked while he showed his catch,
" The niggers seem to be in a deuce of a
stir; I wonder what's up. I saw about fif-

167

Tales of Unrest

teen canoes cross the river during the two
hours I was there fishing." Kayerts, wor-
ried, said, " Isn't this Makola very queer
to-day? " Cariier advised, " Keep all our
men together in case of some trouble/'

i68

There were ten station men who had
been left by the Director. Those fellows,
having engaged themselves to the Com-
pany for six months (without having any
idea of a month in particular and only a
very faint notion of time in general), had
been serving the cause of progress for up-
wards of two years. Belonging to a tribe
from a very distant part of this land of dark-
ness and sorrow, they did not run away,
naturally supposing that as wandering
strangers they would be killed by the in-
habitants of the country; in which they
were right. They lived in straw huts on
the slope of a ravine overgrown with reedy
grass, just behind the station buildings.
They were not happy, regretting the festive
incantations, the sorceries, the human sac-
rifices of their own land; where they also
had parents, brothers, sisters, admired
chiefs, respected magicians, loved friends,

169

Tales of Unrest

and other ties supposed generally to be hu-
man. Besides, the rice rations served out
by the Company did not ag^e.e with them,
being a food unknown to their land, and to
which they could not get used. Conse-
quently they were unhealthy and miserable.
Had they been of any other tribe they would
have made up their minds to die — ^for noth-
ing is easier to certain savages than sui-
cide — and so have escaped from the puz-
zling difficulties of existence. But belong-
ing, as they did, to a warlike tribe with filed
teeth, they had more grit, and went on
stupidly living through disease and sorrow.
They did very little work, and had lost their
splendid physique. Carlier and Kayerts
doctored them assiduously without being
able to bring them back into condition
again. They were mustered every morn-
ing and told off to different tasks — ^grass-
cutting, fence-building, tree-felling, &c.,
&c., which no power on earth could induce
them to execute efficiently. The two whites
had practically very little control over them.
In the afternoon Makola came over to the
big house and found Kayerts watching

170

An Outpost of Progress

three heavy columns of smoke rising above
the forests. " What is that? " asked Kay-
erts. " Some villages bum," answered Ma-
kola, who seemed to have regained his wits.
Then he said abruptly: " We have got very
little ivory; bad six months' trading. Do
ypu like get a little more ivory? "
. " Yes," said Kayerts eagerly. He
thought of percentages which were low.

" Those men who came yesterday are
traders from Loanda who have got more
ivory than they can carry home. Shall I
buy? I know their camp."

"Certainly," said Kayerts. "What are
those traders?"

" Bad fellows," said Makola indifferently.
" They fight with people, and catch women
and children. They are bad men, and got
guns. There is a great disturbance in the
country. Do you want ivory? "

" Yes," said Kayerts. Makola said noth-
ing for a while. Then : " Those workmen
of ours are no good at. all," he muttered,
looking round. " Station in very bad ordar,
sir. Director will growl. Better get a fine
lot of ivory, then he say nothing."

4 171

Tales of Unrest

" I can't help it; the men won't work/'
said Kayerts. ''When will you get that
ivory? "

"Very soon/' said Makda. "Perhaps
to-night. You leave it to me, and keep in-
doors, sir. I think you had better give some
palm wine to our men to make a dance this
evening. Enjoy themselves. Work better
to-morrow. There's plenty palm wine —
gone a little sour."

Kayerts said yes, and Makola, with his
own hands, carried the big calabashes to
the door of his hut. They stood there till
the evening, and Mrs. Makola looked into
every one. The men got them at sunset.
When Kayerts and Carlier retired, a big
bonfire was flaring before the men's huts.
They could hear their shouts and drum-
ming. Some men from Gobila's village had
joined the station hands, and the entertain-
ment was a great success.

In the middle of the night, Carlier wak-
ing suddenly, heard a man shout loudly;
then a shot was fired. Only one. Carlier
ran out and met Kayerts on the verandah.
They were both startled. As ih^ went

I7i

An Outpost of Progress

across the yard to call Makola, they saw
shadows moving in the night. One of them
cried, "Don't shoot! It's me, Price."
Then Makola appeared close to them. " Go
back, go back, please," he urged, "you
spoil all." " There are strange men about,"
said earlier. " Never mind; I know," said
Makola. Then he whispered, "All right.
Bring ivory. Say nothing! I know my
business." The two white men reluctantly
went back to the house, but did not sleep.
They heard footsteps, whispers, some
groans. It seemed as if a lot of men came
in, dumped heavy things on the ground,
squabbled a long time, then went away.
They lay on their hard beds and thought:
** This Makola is invaluable." In the morn-
ing earlier came out, very sleepy, and
pulled at the cord of the big bell. The sta-
tion hands mustered every morning to the
sound of the bell. That morning nobody
came. Kayerts turned out also, yawning.
Across the yard they saw Makola come out
of his hut, a tin basin of soapy water in
his hand. Makola, a civilised nigger, was
very neat in his person. He threw the

173

Talcs of Unrest

soapsuds skilfully over a wretched little
yellow cur he had, then turning his face to
the agent's house, he shouted from the dis-
tance, " All the men gone last night! "

They heard him plainly, but in their sur-
prise they both yelled out together:
" What I " Then they stared at one an-
other. "We are in a proper fix now,"
growled Carlier. "It's incredible 1" mut-
tered Kayerts. "I will go to the huts
and see," said Carlier, striding off. Ma-
kola coming up found Kayerts standing
alone.

" I can hardly believe it/' said Kayerts
tearfully. " We took care of them as if they
had been our children."

" They went with the coast people,*' said
Makola after a moment of hesitation.

" What do I care with whom they went
—the ungrateful brutes 1" exclaimed the
other. Then with sudden suspicion, and
looking hard at Makola, he added ; " What
do you know about it? "

Makola moved his shoulders, looking
down on the ground. " What do I know?
I think only. Will you come and look at

174

An Outpost of Progress

the ivory I've got there? It is a fine lot
You never saw such/*

He moved towards the store. Kayerts
followed him mechanically, thinking about
the incredible desertion of the men. On
the ground before the door of the fetish lay
six splendid tusks.

" What did you give for it? '* asked Kay-
erts, after surveying the lot with satisfaction.

" No regular trade/' said Makola. " They
brought the ivory and gave it to me. I told
them to take what they most wanted in the
station. It is a beautiful lot No station
can show such tusks. Those traders wanted
carriers badly, and our men were no good
here. No trade, no entry in books; all
correct"

Kayerts nearly burst with indignation.
" Why ! " he shouted, " I believe you have
sold our men for these tusks t" Makola
stood impassive and silent. " I — I — ^will
—I," stuttered Kayerts. " You fiend 1 " he
yelled out.

"I did the best for you and the Com-
pany," said Makola imperturbably. " Why
you shout so much? Look at this tusk."

175

Tales of Unrest

"I dismiss yt5ul I will report you— I
won't look at the tusk. I forbid you to
touch them. I order you to throw them
into the river. You — ^you ! ^

" You very red, Mr. Kayerts. If you are
so irritable in the sun, you will get fever and
die— like the first chief I " pronounced Ma-
kola impressively.

They stood still, contemplating one an-
other with intense eyes, as if they had been
looking with effort across immense dis-
tances. Kayerts shivered. Makola had
meant no more than he said, but his words
seemed to Kayerts full of ominous menace!
He turned sharply and went away to the
house. Makola retired into the bosom of
his family; and the tusks, left l3ning before
the store, looked very large and valuable in
the sunshine.

Carlier came back on the verandah.
"They're all gone, hey?" asked Kayerts
from the far end of the common room in a
mufHed voice. "You did not find any-
body? "

" Oh, yes," said Carlier, " I found one of
Gobila's people lying dead before the huts

176

An Outpost of Progress

•—shot through the body. We heard that
shot last night''

Kayerts came out quickly. He found his
companion staring grimly over the yard at
the tusks, away by the store. They both sat
in silence for a while. Then Kayerts related
his conversation with Makola. Carlier said
nothing. At the midday meal they ate very
little. They hardly exchanged a word that
day. A great silence seemed to lie heavily
over the station and press on their lips.
Makola did not open the store; he spent
the day playing with his children. He lay
full-length on a mat outside his door, and
the youngsters sat on his chest and clam-
bered all over him. It was a touching pict-
ure. Mrs. Makola was busy cooking all
day as usual. The white men made a some-
what better meal in the evening. After-
wards, Carlier smoking his pipe strolled
over to the store; he stood for a long time
over the tusks, touched one or two with his
foot, even tried to lift the largest one by its
small end. He came back to his chief, w)io
had not stirred from the verandah, Arew
himself in the chair and said—
It 177

Talcs of Unrest

" I can see it! They were pounced upon
while they slept heavily after drinking all
that palm wine you've allowed Makola to
give them. A put-up job! See? The
worst is, some of Gobila's people were
there, and got carried off too, no doubt.
The least drunk woke up, and got shot for
his sobriety. This is a funny country.
What will you do now? "

" We can't touch it, of course," said Kay-
erts.

Of course not," assented Carlier.
Slavery is an awful thing," stammered
out Kayerts in an unsteady voice.

" Frightful — the sufferings," grunted
Carlier, with conviction.

They believed their words. Everybody
shows a respectful deference to certain
sounds that he and his fellows can make.
But about feelings people really know
nothing. We talk with indignation or en-
thusiasm; we talk about oppression, cru-
elty, crime, devotion, self-sacrifice, virtue,
and we know nothing real beyond the
words. Nobody knows what suffering or
sacnbce mean — except, perhaps, the vic*

178

An Outpost of Progress

tims of the mysterious purpose of these il-
lusions.

Next morning they saw Makola very
busy setting up in the yard the big scales
used for weighing ivory. By and by Carlier
said: "What's that filthy scoundrel up
to? " and lounged out into the yard. Kay-
crts followed. They stood by watching.
Makola took no notice. When the balance
was swung true, he tried to lift a tusk into
the scale. It was too heavy. He looked up
helplessly without a word, and for a minute
they stood round that balance as mute and
still as three statues. Suddenly Carlier
said: " Catch hold of the other end, Ma-
kola — ^you beast!" and together they
swung the tusk up. Kayerts trembled in
every limb. He muttered, '* I say! O! I
say! " and putting his hand in his pocket
found there a dirty bit of paper and the
stump of a pencil. He turned his back on
the others, as if about to do something
tricky, and noted stealthily the weights
which Carlier shouted out to him with un-
necessary loudness. When all was over
Makola whispered to himself: " The sun's

179

Tales of Untcst

very strong here for the tusks/'
said to Kayerts in a careless tone: '' I say,
chief, I might just as well give him a lift
with this lot into the store."

As they were going back to the house
Kayerts observed with a sigh : " It had to
be done." And Carlier said: ''It's deplo-
rable, but, the men being Company's men,
the ivory is Company's ivory. We must
look after it" " I will report to the Direc-
tor, of course," said Kayerts. *' Of course;
let him decide," approved Carlier.

At midday they made a hearty meal.
Kayerts sighed from time to time. When-
ever they mentioned Makola's name they
always added to it an opprobrious epithet.
It eased their conscience. Makola gave
himself a half-holiday, and bathed his chil-
dren in the river. No one from Gobila's vil-
lages came near the station that day. No
one came the next day, and the next, nor
for a whole week. Gobila's people might
have all been dead and buried for any sign
of life they gave. But they were only
mourning for those they had lost by the
of white men, who had brought
180

An Outpost of Progress

wicked people into their country. The
wicked people were gone, but fear remained.
Fear always remains. A man may destroy
everything within himself, love and hate
and belief, and even doubt; but as long as
he clings to life he cannot destroy fear: the
fear, subtle, indestructible, and terrible,
that pervades his being; that tinges his
thoughts; that lurks in his heart; that
watches on his lips the struggle of his last
breath. In his fear, the mild old Gobila
offered extra human sacrifices to all the
Evil Spirits that had taken possession of his
white friends. His heart was heavy. Some
warriors spoke about burning and killing,
but the cautious old savage dissuaded them.
Who could foresee the woe those mysteri-
ous creatures, if irritated, might bring?
They should be left alone. Perhaps in time
they would disappear into the earth as the
first one had disappeared. His people must
keep away from them, and hope for the
best.

Kayerts and Carlier did not disappear,
but remained above on this earth, that,
•omthow> they fancied had become biggtr

tgi

Talcs of Unrest

and very empty. It was not the absolute
and dumb solitude of the post that im-
pressed them so much as an inarticulate
feeling that something from within them
was gone, something that worked for their
safety, and had kept the wilderness from
interfering with their hearts. The images
of home; the memory of people like them,
of men that thought and felt as they used to
think and feel, receded into distances made
indistinct by the glare of unclouded sun-
shine. And out of the great silence of the
surrounding wilderness, its very hopeless-
ness and savagery seemed to approach them
nearer, to draw them gently, to look upon
them, to envelop them with a solicitude ir-
resistible, familiar, and disgusting.

Days lengthened into weeks, then into
months. Gobila's people drummed and
yelled to every new moon, as of yore, but
kept away from the station. Makola and
Carlier tried once in a canoe to open com-
munications, but were received with a
shower of arrows, and had to fly back to
the station for dear life. That attempt set
the country up and down the river into an

183

An Outpost of Progress

uproar that could be very distinctly heard
for days. The steamer was late. At first
they spoke of delay jauntily, then anxiously,
then gloomily. The matter was becoming
serious. Stores were running short. Car-
lier cast his lines off the bank, but the river
was low, and the fish kept out in the stream.
They dared not stroll far away from the sta-
tion to shoot. Moreover, there was no
game in the impenetrable forest. Once Car-
lier shot a hippo in the river. They had no
boat to secure it, and it sank. When it
floated up it drifted away, and Gobila's peo-
ple secured the carcase. It was the occa-
sion for a national holiday, but Carlier had a
fit of rage over it, and talked about the ne-
cessity of exterminating all the niggers be-
fore the country could be made habitable.
Kayerts mooned about silently; spent
hours looking at the portrait of his Melie.
It represented a little girl with long
bleached tresses and a rather sour face.
His legs were much swollen, and he could
hardly walk. Carlier, undermined by fever,
could not swagger any more, but kept tof-
tering about, still with a devil-may-care air«

183

Tales of Unrest

as became a man who remembered lus
crack regiment He had become hoarse,
sarcastic, and inclined to say unpleasant
things. He called it "being frank with
you."* They had long ago reckoned their
percentages on trade, including in them
that last deal of " this infamous Makola/'
They had also concluded not to say any-
thing about it Kayerts hesitated at first —
was afraid of the Director.

" He has seen worse things done on the
quiet,'' maintained Carlier, with a hoarse
laugh. ** Trust him! He won't thank you
if you blab. He is no better than you or me.
Who will talk if we hold our tongues?
There is nobody here."

That was the root of the trouble! There
was nobody there; and being left there
alone with their weakness, they became
daily more like a pair of accomplices than
like a couple of devoted friends. They had
heard nothing from home for eight months.
Every evening they said, '* To-morrow we
shall see the steamer." But one of the Com-
pany's steamers had been wrecked, and the
Director was busy with the other, relieving

184

An Outpost of Progress

very distant and important stations on the
main river. He thought that the useless
station, and the useless men, could wait.
Meantime Kayerts and Carlier lived on rice
boiled without salt, and cursed the Com-
pany, all Africa, and the day they were bom.
One must have lived on such diet to dis-
cover what ghastly trouble the necessity of
swallowing one's food may become. There
was literally nothing else in the station but
rice and coffee; they drank the coffee with-
out sugar. The last fifteen lumps Kayerts
had solemnly locked away in his box, to-
gether with a half-bottle of Cognac, "in
case of sickness,'' he explained. Carlier ap^
proved. " When one is sick," he said, " any
little extra like that is cheering."

They waited. Rank grass began to
sprout over the courtyard. The bell never
rang now. Days passed, silent, exasperat?
ing, and slow. When the two men spoke,
they snarled; and their silences were bitter,
as if tinged by the bitterness of their
thoughts.

One day after a lunch of boiled rice, Car-
lier put down his cup untasted, and said:

i8s

Tales of Unrest

** Hang it all! Let's have a decent cup of
coffee for once. Bring out that sugar,
KayertsI "

** For the sick," muttered Kayerts, with-
out looking up.

" For the sick,** mocked Carlien " Bosh!
. . . Well! I am sick.'*

" You are no more sick than I am, and I
go withottt/'said Kayerts in a peaceful tone.

** Come! out with that sugar, you stingy
old slave-dealer.*'

Kayerts looked up quickly. Carlier was
smiling with marked insolence. And sud-
denly it seemed to Kayerts that he had
never seen that man before. Who was he?
He knew nothing about him. What was he
capable of? There was a surprising flash of
violent emotion within him, as if in the pres-
ence of something undreamt-of, dangerous,
and final But he managed to pronounce
with composure —

" That joke is in very bad taste. Don't
repeat it."

•'Joke!" said Carlier, hitching himself
forward on his seat. '' I am hungry — ^I am
sick — I don't joke! I hate hypocrites. You

An Outpost of Progress

are a hypocrite. You are a slave-dealer. I
am a slave-dealer. There's nothing but
slave-dealers in this cursed country.' I
mean to have sugar in my coffee to-day,
anyhow ! "

''I forbid you to speak to me in that
way/' said Kayerts with a fair show of reso*
lution.

" You I— What? " shouted Carlier, jump-
ing up.

Kayerts stood up also. ''I am your
chief/' he began, trying to master the shaki-
ness of his voice.

"What?'' yelled the other. "Who's
chief? There's no chief here. There's noth-
ing here: there's nothing but you and I.
Fetch the sugar — ^you pot-bellied ass."

"Hold your tongue. Go out of this
room/' screamed Kayerts. " I dismiss you
—you scoundrel ! "

Carlier swung a stool. All at once he
looked dangerously in earnest. " You flab-
by, good-for-nothing civilian— take thati *•
he howled.

Kayerts dropped under the table, and the
stocd struck tfie grass inner wall of the

187

Talcs of Unrest

room. Then, as Carlier was tiying to upset
the table, Kayerts in desperation made a
blind rushy head low, like a cornered pig
would do, and overturning his friend,
bolted along the verandah, and into his
room. He locked the door, snatched his re-
volver, and stood panting. In less than a
minute Carlier was kicking at the door furi-
ously, howling, "If you don't bring out
that sugar, I will shoot you at sight, like a
dog. Now then — one — ^two— three. You
won't? I will show you who's the master.'^
Kayerts thought the door would fall in,
and scrambled through the square hole that
served for a window in his room. There
was then the whole breadth of the house be*
tween them. But the other was apparently
not strong enough to break in the door, and
Kayerts heard him running round. Then
he also began to run laboriously on his
swollen legs. He ran as quickly as he
could, grasping the revolver, and unable
yii to understand what was happening to
him. He saw in succession Makola's house,
the store, the river, the ravine, and the low
bushes; and he saw all those things again

i88

An Outpost of Progress

te he ran for the second time round the
house. Then again they flashed past him.
That morning he could not have walked a
yard without a groan.

And now he ran. He ran fast enough to
keep out of sight of the other man.

Then as, weak and desperate, he thought,
** Before I finish the next round I shall die/'
he heard the other man stumble heavily,
then stop. He stopped also. He had the
back and Carlier the front of the house, as
before. He heard him drop into a chair
cursing, and suddenly his own legs gave
way, and he slid down into a sitting posture
with his back to the wall. His mouth was
as dry as a cinder, and his face was wet with
perspiration — and tears. What was it all
about? He thought it must be a horrible
illusion; he thought he was dreaming; he
thought he was going mad! After a while
he collected his senses. What did they
quarrel about? That sugar! How absurd!
He would give it to him— didn't want it
himself. And he began scrambling to his
feet with a sudden feeling of security. But
before he had fairly stood upright, a com-

189

Talcs of Unrest

mon-sense reflection occurred to him and
drove him back into despair. He thought :
If I give way now to that brute of a soldier,
he will begin this horror again to-morrow
— and the day after— every day — raise other
pretensions, trample on me, torture me,
make me his slave — ^and I will be lost!
Lost! The steamer may not come for days
— ^may never come. He shook so that he
had to sit down on the floor again. He
shivered forlornly. He felt he could not,
would not move any more. He was com-
pletely distracted by the sudden perception
that the position was without issue — ^that
death and life had in a moment become
equally difficult and terrible.

All at once he heard the other push his
chair back; and he leaped to his feet with
extreme facility. He listened and got con-
fused. Must run again 1 Right or left? He
heard footsteps. He darted to the left,
grasping his revolver, and at the very same
instant, as it seemed to him, they came into
violent collision. Both shouted with sur-
prise. A loud explosion took place be-
tween them: a roar of red fire, thick smoke;

190

An Outpost of Progress

and Kayerts, deafened and blinded, rushed
back thinking : I am hit — it's all over. He
expected the other to come round — ^to gloat
over his agony. He caught hold of an up-
right of the roof— "All overl" Then he
heard a crashing fall on the other side of
the house, as if somebody had tumbled
headlong over a chair — ^then silence. Noth-
ing more happened. He did not die. Only
his shoulder felt as if it had been badly
wrenched, and he had lost his revolver. He
was disarmed and helpless! He waited for
his fate. The other man made no sound.
It was a stratagem. He was stalking him
now! Along what side? Perhaps he was
taking aim this very minute!

After a few moments of an agony fright-
ful and absurd, he decided to go and meet
his doom. He was prepared for every sur-
render. He turned the comer, steadying
himself with one hand on the wall; made a
few paces, and nearly swooned. He had
seen on the floor, protruding past the other
comer, a pair of turned-up feet. A pair of
white naked feet in red slippers. He felt
deadly sick, and stood for a time in pro*

19X

Talcs of Unrest

found darkness. Then Makola appeared
before him, saying quietly: " Come along,
Mr. Kayerts. He is dead." He burst into
tears of gratitude; a loud, sobbing fit of
crying. After a time he found himself sit-
ting in a chair and looking at Carlier, who
lay stretched on his back. Makola was
kneeling over the body.

" Is this your revolver? *' asked Makola,
getting up.

" Yes," said Kayerts; then he added very
quickly, " He ran after me to shoot me—
you saw!"

« Yes, I saw," said Makola. " There is
only one revolver; where's his? "

" Don't know," whispered Kayerts in a
voice that had become suddenly very faint.

" I will go and look for it," said the other
gently. He made the round along the ve-
randah, while Kayerts sat still and looked at
the corpse. Makola came back empty-
handed, stood in deep thought, then stepped
quietly into the dead man's room, and came
out directly with a revolver, which he held
up before Kayerts. Kayerts shut his eyes.
Everything was going round. He found

19a

An Outpost of Progress

life more terrible and difficult than death.
He had shot an unarmed man.

After meditating for a while, Makola said
softly, pointing at the dead man who lay
there with his right eye blown out —

" He died of fever." Kayerts looked at
him with a stony stare. " Yes," repeated
Makola thoughtfully, stepping over the .
corpse, "I think he died of fever. Bury
him to-morrow."

And he went away slowly to his expect-
ant wife, leaving the two white men alone
on the verandah.

Night came, and Kayerts sat unmoving
on his chair. He sat quiet as if he had
taken a dose of opium. The violence of
the emotions he had passed through pro-
duced a feeling of exhausted serenity. He
had plumbed in one short afternoon the
depths of horror and despair, and now
found repose in the conviction that life had
no more secrets for him : neither had death!
He sat by the corpse thinking; thinking
very actively, thinking very new thoughts.
He seemed to have broken loose from him-
self altogether. His old thoughts, convic-
ts 193

Tales of Unrest

tions, likes and dislikes, things he respected
and things he abhorred, appeared in their
true light at last! Appeared contemptible
and childish, false and ridiculous. He rev-
elled in his new wisdom while he sat by the
man he had killed. He argued with himself
about all things under heaven with that
kind of wrong-headed lucidity which may
be observed in some lunatics. Incidentally
he reflected that the fellow dead there had
been a noxious beast anyway; that men died
every day in thousands; perhaps in hun-
dreds of thousands — ^who could tell? — ^and
that in the number, that one death could
not possibly make any difference; couldn't
have any importance, at least to a thinking
creature. He, Kayerts, was a thinking
creature. He had been all his life, till that
moment, a believer in a lot of nonsense like
the rest of mankind — ^who are fools; but
now he thought! He knew! He was at
peace; he was familiar with the highest wis-
dom I Then he tried to imagine himself
dead, and Carlier sitting in his chair watch-
ing him; and his attempt met with such un-
expected success, that in a very few mo*

194

An Outpost of Progress

ments he became not at all sure who was
dead and who was alive. This extraordi-
nary achievement of his fancy startled him,
however, and by a clever and timely effort
of mind he saved himself just in time from
becoming Carlier. His heart thumped, and
he felt hot all over at the thought of that
danger. Carlier! What a beastly thing!
To compose his now disturbed nerves — and
no wonder !^ — ^he tried to whistle a little.
Then, suddenly, he feel asleep, or thought
he had slept; but at any rate there was a
fog, and somebody had whistled in the fog.

He stood up. The day had come, and a
heavy mist had descended upon the land:
the mist penetrating, enveloping, and silent;
the morning mist of tropical lands; the miist
that clifTgs and kills; the mist white and
deadly, immaculate and poisonous. He^
stood up, saw the body, and threw his arms
above his head with a cry like that of a man
who, waking from a trance, finds himself
immured for ever in a tomb. " HHpt • . .
My God! "

A shriek inhuman, vibrating and sudden,
pierced like a sharp dart the white shroud

I9S

Tales of Unrest

of that land of sorrow. Three short, im-
patient screeches followed, and then, for a
time, the fog-wreaths rolled on, undis-
turbed, through a formidable silence. Then
many more shrieks, rapid and piercing, like
the yells of some exasperated and ruthless
creature, rent the air. Progress was call-
ing to Kayerts from the river. Progress
and civilisation and all the virtues. Soci-
ety was calling to its accomplished child to
come, to be taken care of, to be instructed,
to be judged, to be condemned; it called
him to return to that rubbish heap from
which he had wandered away, so that jus*
tice could be done.

Kayerts heard and understood. He
stumbled out of the verandah, leaving the
other man quite alone for the first time
since they had been thrown there together.
He groped his way through the fog, calling
in his ignorance upon the invisible heaven
to undo its work. Makola flitted by in the
mist, shouting as he ran —

" Steamer 1 Steamer! They can't see.
They whistle for the station. I go ring the
bell. Go down to the landing, sin I ring.''

196

An Outpost of Progress

He disappeared. Kayerts stood still He
looked upwards; the fog rolled low over his
head. He looked round like a man who has
lost his way; and he saw a dark smudge, a
cross-shaped stain, upon the shifting purity
of the mist. As he began to stumble
towards it, the station bell rang in a tumult-
uous peal its answer to the impatient clam-
our of the steamer.

The Managing Director of the Great Civ-
ilising Company (since we know that dvili*
sation follows trade) landed first, and incon-
tinently lost sight of the steamer. The fog
down by the river was exceedingly dense;
above, at the station, the bell rang unceas-
ing and brazen.

The Director shouted loudly to the
steamer:

" There is nobody down to meet us ; there
may be something wrong, though they arc
ringing. You had better come, too! "

And he began to toil up the steep bank.
The captain and the engine-driver of the
boat followed behind. As they scrambled
up the fog thinned, and they could see their

197

Talcs of Unrest

Director a good way ahead. Suddenly they
saw him start forward, calling to them over
his shoulder: — ^''Run! Run to the house!
I've found one of them. Run, look for the
other!"

He had found one of them ! And even he,
the man of varied and startling experience,
was somewhat discomposed by the manner
of this finding. He stood and fumbled in
his pockets (for a knife) while he faced Kay-
erts, who was hanging by a leather strap
from the cross. He had evidently climbed
the grave, which was high and narrow, and
after tying the end of the strap to the arm,
had swung himself off. His toes were only
a couple of inches above the ground; his
arms hung stiffly down; he seemed to be
standing rigidly at attention, but with one
purple cheek pla)rfully posed on the shoul-
der. And, irreverently, he was putting
out a swollen tongue at his Managing
Director.

198

The Return

T^HE inner circle train from the City
rushed impetuously out of a black hole
and pulled up with a discordant, grinding
racket in the smirched twilight of a West-
End station. A line of doors flew open and
a lot of men stepped out headlong. They
had high hats, healthy pale faces, dark over-
coats and shiny boots; they held in their
gloved hands thin umbrellas and hastily
folded evening papers that resembled stiff,
dirty rags of greenish, pinkish, or whitish
colour. Alvan Hervey stepped out with
the rest, a smouldering cigar between his
teeth, A disregarded little woman in rusty
black, with both arms full of parcels, ran
along in distress, bolted suddenly into a
third-class compartment and the train went
on. The slamming of carriage doors burst
out sharp and spiteful like a fusillade; an
icy draught mingled with acrid fumes swegt

201

Talcs of Unrest

the whole length of the platform and made
a tottering old man, wrapped up to his ears
in a woollen comforter, stop short in the
moving throng to cough violently over his
stick. No one spared him a glance.

Alvan Hervey passed through the ticket
gate. Between the bare walls of a sordid
staircase men clambered rapidly; their
backs appeared alike — ^almost as if they had
been wearing a uniform; their indifferent
faces were varied but somehow suggested
kinship, like the faces of a band of brothers
who through prudence, dignity, disgust, or
foresight would resolutely ignore each
other; and their eyes, quick or slow; their
eyes gazing up the dusty steps; their eyes,
brown, black, grey, blue, had all the same
stare, concentrated and empty, satisfied and
unthinking.

Outside the big doorway of the street
they scattered in all directions, walking
away fast from one another with the hur-
ried air of men fleeing from something com-
promising; from familiarity or confidences;
from something suspected and concealed —
like truth or pestilence. Alvan Hervey

302

The Return

hesitated, standing alone in the doorway for
a moment; then decided to walk home.

He strode firmly. A misty rain settled
like silvery dust on clothes, on moustaches;
wetted the faces, varnished the flagstones,
darkened the walls, dripped from umbrellas.
And he moved on in the rain with careless
serenity, with the tranquil ease of some one
successful, and disdainful, very sure of him-
self — a, man with lots of money and friends.
He was tall, well set up, good-looking and
healthy; and his clear pale face had under
its commonplace refinement that slight
tinge of overbearing brutality which is
given by the possession of only partly diffi-
cult accomplishments; by excelling in
games, or in the art of making money; by
the easy mastery over animals and over
needy men.

He was going home much earlier than
usual, straight from the City and without
calling at his club. He considered himself
well connected, well educated, and intelli-
gent. Who doesn't? But his connections,
education, and intelligence were strictly on
a par with those of the men with whom he

203

Tales of Unrest

did business or amused himself. He had
married five years ago. At the time all his
acquaintances had said he was very much
in love ; and he had said so himself, frankly,
because it is very well understood that every
man falls in love once in his life — ^unless his
wife dies, when it may be quite praise-
worthy to fall in love again. The girl was
healthy, tall, fair, and, in his opinion, was
well connected, well educated and intelli-
gent. She was also intensely bored with
her home where, as if packed in a tight box,
her individuality— of which she was very
conscious — ^had no play. She strode like a
grenadier, was strong and upright like an
obelisk, had a beautiful face, a candid brow,
pure eyes, and not a thought of her own in
her head. He surrendered quickly to all
those charms, and she appeared to him so
unquestionably of the right sort that he did
not hesitate for a moment to declare him-
self in love. Under the cover of that sacred
and poetical fiction he desired her master-
fully, for various reasons; but principally
for the satisfaction of having his own way.
He was very dull and solemn about it—^for

ao4

The Return

no earthly reason, unless to conceal his feel-
ings — ^which is an eminently proper thing
to do. Nobody however would have been
shocked had he neglected that duty, for the
feeling he experienced really was a longing
— Si longing stronger and a little more com-
plex no doubt, but no more reprehensible
in its nature than a hungry man's appetite
for his dinner.

After their marriage they busied them-
selves, with marked success, in enlarging
the circle of their acquaintance. Thirty
people knew them by sight; twenty more
with smiling demonstrations tolerated their
occasional presence within hospitable
thresholds; at least fifty others became
aware of their existence. They moved in
their enlarged world amongst perfectly de-
lightful men and women who feared emo-
tion, enthusiasm, or failure, more than fire,
war, or mortal disease; who tolerated only
the commonest formulas of commonest
thoughts, and recognised only profitable
facts. It was an extremely charming
sphere, the abode of all the virtues, where
nothing is realised and where all joys and

ao5

Tales of Unrest

sorrows are cautiously toned down into
pleasures and annoyances. In that serene
region, then, where noble sentiments are
cultivated in sufficient profusion to conceal
the pitiless materialism of thoughts and as-
pirations Alvan Hervey and his wife spent
five years of prudent bliss unclouded by any
doubt as to the moral propriety of their ex-
istence. She, to give her individuality fair
play, took up all manner of philanthropic
work and became a member of various res-
cuing and reforming societies patronised or
presided over by ladies of title. He took
an active interest in politics; and having
met quite by chance a literary man — ^who
nevertheless was related to an earl — ^he was
induced to finance a moribund society
paper. It was a semi-political, and wholly
scandalous publication, redeemed by exces-
sive dulness; and as it was utterly faithless,
as it contained no new thought, as it never
by any chance had a flash of wit, satire, or
indignation in its pages, he judged it re-
spectable enough, at first sight. After-
wards, when it paid, he promptly perceived
that upon the whole it was a virtuous under-

206

The Return

taking. It paved the way o{ his ambi-
tion; and he enjoyed also the special kind
of importance he derived from this con-
nection with what he imagined to be litera-
ture.

This connection still further enlarged
their world. Men who wrote or drew pret-
tily for the public came at times to their
house, and his editor came very often. He
thought him rather an ass because he had
such big frcMit teeth (the proper thing is to
have small, even teeth) and wore his hair a
trifle longer than most men do. However,
some dukes wear their hair long, and the
fellow indubitably knew his business. The
worst was that his gravity, though perfectly
portentous, could not be trusted. He sat,
elegant and bulky, in the drawing-room,
the head of his stick hovering in front of his
big teeth, and talked for hours with a thick-
lipped smile (he said nothing that could be
considered objectionable and not quite the
thing); talked in an tmusual manner — not
obviously — ^irritatingly. His forehead was
too lofty — ^unusually so— and under it there
was a straight nose, lost between the hair-

207

Tiks of Unrest

less dieeksy diat in a smooth cnrve ran into
a chin sh^>ed like the end of a snow-shoe.
And in this face that resembled the face of
a bt and fiendishly knowing baby there
glittered a pair of clever, peering, unbdiev*
ing black eyes. He wrote verses toa
Rather an ass. But the band of men who
trailed at the skirts of his monumental
frock-coat seemed to perceive wonderful
things in what he said. Alvan Hervey put
it down to affectation. Those artist chaps,
upon the whole, were so affected. Still, all
this was highly proper — ^very useful to him
*-and his wife seemed to like it — as if she
also had derived some distinct and secret
advantage from this intdlectual connection.
She recdved her mixed and deccH-ous
guests with a kind of tall, ponderous grace,
peculiarly her own and which awakened in
the mind of intimidated strangers incon-
gruous and improper reminiscences of
an dephant» a giraffe, a gazdle; of a gothic
tower — of an overgrown angd. Her
Thursdays were becoming famous in their
world; and their world grew steadily, an-
nexing street after street It induded also

ao8

The Return

Somebody's Gardens, a Crescent — a couple
of Squares.

Thus Alvan Hervey and his wife for five
prosperous years lived by the side of one
another. In time they came to know each
other sufficiently well for all the practical
purposes of such an existence, but they were
no more capable of real intimacy than two
animals feeding at the same manger, under
the same roof, in a luxurious stable. His
longing was appeased and became a habit;
and she had her desire — ^the desire to get
away from under the paternal roof, to as-
sert her individuality, to move in her own
set (so much smarter than the parental
one) ; to have a home of her own, and her
own share of the world's respect, envy, and
applause. They understood each other
warily, tacitly, like a pair of cautious con-
spirators in a profitable plot; because they
were both unable to look at a fact, a senti-
ment, a principle, or a belief otherwise than
in the light of their own dignity, of their
own glorification, of their own advantage.
They skimmed over the surface of life hand
in hand, in a pure and frosty atmoipheri
14 209

Tales of Unrest

like two skilful skaters cutting figures on
thick ice for the admiration of the behold-
ers, and disdainfully ignoring the hidden
stream, the stream restless and dark; the
stream of life, profound and unfrozen.

Alvan Hervey turned twice to the left,
once to the right, walked along two sides of
a square, in the middle of which groups of
tame-looking trees stood in respectable cap-
tivity behind iron railings, and rang at his
door. A parlourmaid opehed. A fad of his
wife's, this, to have only women servants'.
That girl, while she took his hat and over-
coat, said something which made him look
at his watch. It was five o'clock, and his
wife not at home. There was nothing un-
usual in that. He said ** No; no tea,'' and
went upstairs.

He ascended without footfalls. Brass
rods glimmered all up the red carpet. On
the first-floor landing a marble woman, de-
cently covered from neck to instep with
stone draperies, advanced a row of lifeless
toes to the edge of the pedestal, and thrust
out blindly a rigid white arm holding a

aio

The Heturn

cluster of lights. He had artistic tastes — at
home. Heavy curtains caught back, half
concealed dark comers. On the rich,
stamped paper of the walls hung sketches,
water-colours, engravings. His tastes were
distinctly artistic. Old church towers
peeped above green masses of foliage; the
hills were purple, the sands yellow, the seas
sunny, the skies blue. A young lady
sprawled with dreamy eyes in a moored
boat, in company of a lunch basket, a cham-
pagne bottle, and an enamoured man in a
blazer. Bare-legged boys flirted sweetly
with ragged maidens, slept on stone steps,
gambolled with dogs. A pathetically lean
girl flattened against a blank wall, turned
up expiring eyes and tendered a flower for
sale; while, near by, the large photographs
of some famous and mutilated bas-reliefs
seemed to represent a massacre turned into
stone.

He looked, of course, at nothing, as-
cended another flight of stairs and went
straight into the dressing room. A bronze
dragon nailed by the tail to a bracket
writhed away from the wall in calm convo-

Tales of Unrest

lutions, and held, between the conventional
fury of its jaws, a crude gas flame that re-
sembled a butterfly. The room was empty,
of course; but, as he stepped in, it became
filled all at once with a stir of many people;
because the strips of glass on the doors of
wardrobes and his wife's large pier-glass re-
flected him from head to foot, and multi-
plied his image into a crowd of gentlemanly
and slavish imitators, who were dressed ex-
actly like himself; had the same restrained
and rare gestures; who moved when he
moved, stood still with him in an obsequi-
ous immobility, and had just such appear-
ances of life and feeling as he thought it
dignified and safe for any man to manifest.
And like real people who are slaves of com-
mon thoughts, that are not even their own,
they affected a shadowy independence by
the superficial variety of their movements.
They moved together with him; but they
cither advanced to meet him, or walked
away from him; they appeared, disap-
peared; they seemed to dodge behind wal-
nut furniture, to be seen again, far within
the polished panes, stepping about distinct

The Return

and unreal in the convincing illusion of a
room. And like the men he respected they
could be trusted to do nothing individual,
original, or startling — ^nothing unforeseen
and nothing improper.

He moved for a time aimlessly in that
good company, humming a popular but re-
fined tune, and thinking vaguely of a busi-
ness letter from abroad, which had to be
answered on the morrow with cautious pre-
varication. Then, as he walked towards a
wardrobe, he saw appearing at his back, in
the high mirror, the corner of his wife's
dressing-table, and, amongst the glitter of
silver-mounted objects on it, the square
white patch of an envelope. It was such an
unusual thing to be seen there that he spun
round almost before he realised his sur-
prise; and all the sham men about him
pivoted on their heels; all appeared sur-
prised; and all moved rapidly towards en-
velopes on dressing-tables.

He recognised his wife's handwriting and
saw that the envelope was addressed to him*-
self. He muttered, " How very odd," and
felt annoyed. Apart from any odd action

313

Talcs of Unrest

essentially an indecent thing in itself,
the fact of his wife indulging in it made it
doubly offensive. That she should write to
him at all, when she knew he would be
home for dinner, was perfectly ridiculous;
but that she should leave it like this — in evi-
dence for chance discovery — struck him as
so outrageous that, thinking of it, he expe-
rienced suddenly a staggering sense of in-
security, an absurd and bizarre flash of a
noticm that the house had moved a little
under his feet He tore the envelope open,
glanced at the letter, and sat down in a chair
near by.

He held the paper before his eyes and
looked at half a dozen lines scrawled on the
page, while he was stunned by a noise mean-
ingless and violent, like the clash of gongs
or the beating of drums; a great aimless
uproar that, in a manner, prevented him
from hearing himself think and made his
mind an absolute blank. This absurd and
distracting tumult seemed to ooze out of
the written words, to issue from between his
very fingers that trembled, holding the
paper. And suddenly he dropped the letter

914

The Return

as though it had been something hot, or
venomous, or filthy; and rushing to the
window with the unreflecting precipita-
tion of a man anxious to raise an alarm of
fire or murder, he threw it up and put his
head out.

A chill gust of wind, wandering through
the damp and sooty obscurity over the
waste of roofs and chimney-pots, touched
his face with a clammy flick. He saw an il-
limitable darkness, in which stood a black
jumble of walls, and, between them, the
many rows of gaslights stretched far away
in long lines, like strung-up beads of fire.
A sinister loom as of a hidden conflagration
lit up faintly from below the mist, falling
upon a billowy and motionless sea of tiles
and bricks. At the rattle of the opened win-
dow the world seemed to leap out of the
night and confront him, while floating up to
his ears there came a sound vast and faint;
the deep mutter of something immense and
alive. It penetrated him with a feeling of
dismay and he gasped silently. From the
cab-stand in the square came distinct hoarse
voices and a jeering laugh which soundod

«J5

Tales of Unrest

ominously harsh and cruel. It sounded
threatening. He drew his head in, as if be-
fore an aimed blow, and flung the window
down quickly. He made a few steps, stum-
bled against a chair, and, with a great effort,
pulled himself together to lay hold of a cer-
tain thought that was whizzing about loose
in his head.

He got it at last, after more exertion than
he expected; he was flushed and puffed a
little as though he had been catching it with
his hands, but his mental hold on it was
weak, so weak that he judged it necessary
to repeat it aloud — ^to hear it spoken firmly
— ^in order to insure a perfect measure of
possession. But he was unwilling to hear
his own voice — ^to hear any sound whatever
— owing to a vague belief, shaping itself
slowly within him, that solitude and silence
are the greatest felicities of mankind. The
next moment it dawned upon him that they
are perfectly unattainable — ^that faces must
be seen, words spoken, thoughts heard. All
the words — all the thoughts!

He said very distinctly, and looking at
the carpet, " She's gone."

216

The Return

It was terrible — ^not the fact but the
words; the words charged with the shad-
owy might of a meaning, that seemed to
possess the tremendous power to call Fate
down upon the earth, like those strange and
appalling words that sometimes are heard
in sleep. They vibrated round him in a me-
tallic atmosphere, in a space that had the
hardness of iron and the resonance of a bell
ol bronze. Looking down between the
toes of his boots he seemed to listen
thoughtfully to the receding wave of sound;
to the wave spreading out in a widening
circle, embracing streets, roofs, church-stee-
ples, fields — and travelling away, widening
endlessly, far, very far, where he could not
hear — ^where he could not imagine any-
thing — ^where ....

"And — with that . . . ass," he said
again without stirring in the least And
there was nothing but humiliation. Noth-
ing else. He could derive no moral solace
from any aspect of the situation, which radi-
ated pain only on every side. Pain. What
kind of pain? It occurred to him that he
ought to be heart-broken; but in an ex-

ai7

Tales of Unrest

ceedingly short moment he perceived that
his suffering was nothing of so trifling and
dignified a kind. It was altogether a more
serious matter, and partook rather of the
nature of those subtle and cruel feelings
which are awakened by a kick or a horse-
whipping.

He felt very sick — ^physically sick — as
though he had bitten through something
nauseous. Life, that to a well-ordered
mind should be a matter of congratulation,
appeared to him, for a second or so, per-
fectly intolerable. He picked up the paper
at his feet, and sat down with the wish to
think it out, to understand why his wife —
his wife! — should leave him, should throw
away respect, comfort, peace, decency, posi-
tion — ^throw away everything for nothing!
He set himself to think out the hidden logic
of her action — a mental undertaking fit for
the leisure hours of a madhouse, though he
couldn't see it. And he thought of his wife
in every relation except the only funda-
mental one. He thought of her as a well-
bred girl, as a wife, as a cultured person, as
the mistress of a house, as a lady; but be

ai8

The Return

never for a moment thought of her simply
as a woman.

Then a fresh wave, a raging wave of hu-
miliation, swept through his mind, and left
nothing there but a personal sense of unde-
served abasement. Why should he be
mixed up with such a horrid exposure! It
annihilated all the advantages of his well-
ordered past, by a truth effective and unjust
like a calumny — ^and the past was wasted.
Its failure was disclosed — r, distinct failure,
on his part, to see, to guard, to understand.
It could not be denied ; it could not be ex-
plained away, hustled out of sight He
could not sit on it and look solemn. Now
— if she had only died !

If she had only died! He was driven to
envy such a respectable bereavement, and
one so perfectly free from any taint of mis-
fortune that even his best friend or his best
enemy would not have felt the slightest
thrill of exultation. No one would have
cared. He sought comfort in clinging to
the contemplation of the only fact of life
that the resolute efforts of mankind had
never failed to disguise in the clatter and

219

Tales of Unrest

glamour of phrases. And nothing lends it«
self more to lies than death. If she had only
died! Certain words would have been said
to him in a sad tone> and he, with proper
fortitude, would have made appropriate an-
swers. There were precedents for such an
occasion. And no one would have cared.
If she had only died! The promises, the
terrors, the hopes of eternity, are the con-
cern of the corrupt dead; but the obvious
sweetness of life belongs to living, healthy
men. And life was his concern: that sane
and gratifying existence untroubled by too
much love or by too much regret. She had
interfered with it; she had defaced it. And
suddenly it occurred to him he must have
been mad to marry. It was too much in the
nature of giving yourself away, of wearing
— if for a moment — ^your heart on your
sleeve. But every one married. Was all
mankind mad!

In the shock of that startling thought he
looked up, and saw to the left, to the right,
in front, men sitting far off in chairs and
looking at him with wild eyes— emissaries
of a distracted mankind intruding to spy

890

The Return

upon his pain and his humiliation. It was
not to be borne. He rose quickly, and the
others jumped up too on all sides. He
stood still in the middle of the room as if
discouraged by their vigilance. No escape 1
He felt something akin to despair. Every-
body must know. All the world must know
to-morrow. The servants must know to-
night. He ground his teeth. . . . And he
had never noticed, never guessed Bnything.
Every one will know. He thought: The
woman's a monster, but everybody will
think me a fool; and standing still in the
midst of severe walnut-wood furniture, he
felt such a tempest of anguish within him
that he seemed to see himself rolling on the
carpet, beating his head against the wall.
He was disgusted with himself, with the
loathsome rush of emotion breaking
through all the reserves that guarded his
manhood. Something unknown, withering
and poisonous, had entered his life, passed
near him, touched him, and he was deterior-
ating. He was appalled. What was it?
She was gone. Why? His head was ready
to burtt with the endeavour to understand

a2x

Talcs of Unrest

her act and his subtle horror of it. Every-
thing was changed. Why? Only a woman
gone, after all; and yet he had a vision, a
vision quick and distinct as a dream: the
vision of everything he had thought inde-
structible and safe in this world crashing
down about him, like solid walls do before
the fierce breath of a hurricane. He stared,
shaking in every limb, while he felt the de-
structive breath, the mysterious breath, the
breath of passion, stir the profound peace
of the house. He looked round in fear.
Yes. Crime may be forgiven; uncalculat-
ing sacrifice, blind trust, burning faith,
other follies, may be turned to account;
suffering, death itself, may with a grin or a
frown be explained away; but passion is
the unpardonable and secret infamy of our
hearts, a thing to curse, to hide and to deny;
a shameless and forlorn thing that tramples
upon the smiling promises, that tears off
the placid mask, that strips naked the body
of life. And it had come to him! It had
laid its unclean hand upon the spotless dra-
peries of his existence, and he had to face
it alone with all the world looking on. All

322

The Return

the world! And he thought that even the
bare suspicion of such an adversary within
his house carried with it a taint and a con-
demnation. He put both his hands out as
if to ward off the approach of a defiling
truth; and, instantly, the appalled conclave
of unreal men, standing about mutely be-
yond the clear lustre of mirrors, made at
him the same gesture of rejection and
horror.

He glanced vainly here and there, like a
man looking in desperation for a weapon
or for a hiding place, and understood at last
that he was disarmed and cornered by an
enemy that, without any squeamishness,
would strike so as to lay open his heart. He
could get help nowhere, or even take coun-
sel with himself, because in the sudden
shock of her desertion the sentiments which
he knew that in fidelity to his bringing up,
to his prejudices and his surroundings, he
ought to experience, were so mixed up with
the novelty of real feelings, of fundamental
feelings, that know nothing of creed, class,
or education, that he was unable to dis-
tinguish clearly between what is and what

323

Talcs of Unrest

ought to be; between the inexcusable truth
and the valid pretences. And he knew in-
stinctively that truth v^ould be of no use to
him. Some kind of concealment seemed a
necessity because one cannot explain. Of
course not! Who would listen? One had
simply to be without stain and without re-
proach to keep one's place in the forefront
of life.

He said to himself, '' I must get over it
the best I can/' and began to walk up and
down the room. What next? What ought
to be done? He thought: I will travel — ^no
I won't. I shall face it out. And after that
resolve he was greatly cheered by the reflec-
tion that it would be a mute and an easy
part to play, for no one would be likely to
converse with him about the abominable
conduct of — that woman. He argued to
himself that decent people — ^and he knew
no others— did not care to talk about such
indelicate affairs. S ^^eJ^ad-^gQ^ ; ^e off — ^with
that unhealthy, fat ass of a journalist- Why?
He had been aiTlnrtrsbatid ©light to be. He
had given her a good position — ^she shared
his prospects — ^he had treated her invaria-

234

The Return

bly with great consideration. He reviewed
his conduct with a kind of dismal pride. It
had been irreproachable. Then, why? For
love? Profanation! There could be no
love there. A shameful impulse of passion.
Yes, passion. His own wife! Good God!
• • . And the indelicate aspect of his do-
mestic misfortune struck him with such
shame that, next moment, he caught him-
self in the act of pondering absurdly over
the notion whether it would not be more
dignified for him to induce a general belief
that he had been in the habit of beating his
wife. Some fellows do . . . and anything
would be better than the filthy fact; for it
was clear he had lived with the root of it for
five years — ^and it was too shameful. Any-
thing! Anything! Brutality .... But
he gave it up directly, and began to think
of the Divorce Court. It did not present it-
self to him, notwithstanding his respect for
law and usage, as a proper refuge for digni-
fied grief. It appeared rather as an unclean
and sinister cavern where men and women
are haled by adverse fate to writhe ridicu-
lously in the presence of uncompromising
IS a as

Tales of Unrest

truth. It should not be allowed. That
woman! Five • . . years . . . married
five years . . . and never to see anything.
Not to the very last day . . . not till she
coolly went off. And he pictured to him-
self all the people he knew engaged in spec-
ulating as to whether all that time he had
been blind, foolish, or infatuated. What a
woman! Blind! . . . Not at all. Could a
clean-minded man imagine such depravity?
Evidently not. He drew a free breath.
That was the attitude to take; it was dig-
nified enough; it gave him the advantage,
and he could not help perceiving that it was
moral. He yearned unaffectedly to see
morality (in his person) triumphant before
the world. As to her — she would be for-
gotten. Let her be forgotten — ^buried in
oblivion — ^lost! No one would allude. . • .
Refined people — ^and every man and wom-
an he knew could be so described — ^had, of
course, a horror of such topics. Had they?
Oh, yes. No one would allude to her . . .
in his hearing. He stamped his foot, tore
the letter across, then again and again. The
thought of sympathising friends excited in

226

The Return

him a fury of mistrust. He flung down the
small bits of paper. They settled, flutter-
ing, at his feet, and looked very white on the
dark carpet^ like a scattered handful of
snow-flakes.

This fit of hot anger was succeeded by a
sudden sadness, by the darkening passage
of a thought that ran over the scorched sur-
face of his heart, like upon a barren plain,
and after a fiercer assault of sunrays,the mel-
ancholy and cooling shadow of a cloud. He
realised that he had had a shock — not a vio-
lent or rending blow, that can be seen, re-
sisted, returned, forgotten, but a thrust, in-
sidious and penetrating, that had stirred all
those feelings, concealed and cruel, which
the arts of the devil, the fears of mankind-
God's infinite compassion, perhaps — keep
chained deep down in the inscrutable twi-
light of our breasts. A dark curtain seemed
to rise before him, and for less than a sec-
ond he looked upon the mysterious uni-
verse of moral suffering. As a landscape is
seen complete, and vast, and vivid, under a
flash of lightning, so he could see disclosed
in a moment, all the immensity of pain that

227

Tales of Unrest

can be contained in one short moment of
human thought Then the curtain fell
again, but his rapid vision left in Alvan Her-
vey's mind a trail of invincible sadness, a
sense of loss and bitter solitude, as though
he had been robbed and exiled. For a mo-
ment he ceased to be a member of society
with a position, a career, and a name at-
tached to all this, like a descriptive label of
some complicated compound. He was a
simple human being removed from the de-
lightful world of crescents and squares. He
stood alone, naked and afraid, like the first
man on the first day of evil. There are in
life events, contacts, glimpses, that seem
brutally to bring all the past to a close.
There is a shock and a crash, as of a gate
flung to behind one by the perfidious hand
of fate. Go and seek another paradise, fool
or sage. There is a moment of dumb dis-
may, and the wanderings must begin again ;
the painful explaining away of facts, the
feverish raking up of illusions, the cultiva-
tion of a fresh crop of lies in the sweat of
one's brow, to sustain life, to make it sup-
portable, to make it fair, so as to hand in-

22S

9 The Return

tact to another generation of blind wander-
ers the charming legend of a heartless coun-
try, of a promised land, all flowers and
blessings. . • .

He came to himself with a slight start,
and became aware of an oppressive, crush-
ing desolation. It was only a feeling, it is
true, but it produced on him a physical ef-
fect, as though his chest had been squeezed
in a vice. He perceived himself so ex-
tremely forlorn and lamentable, and was
moved so deeply by the oppressive sorrow,
that another turn of the screw, he felt,
would bring tears out of his eyes. He was
deteriorating. Five years of life in common
had appeased his longing. Yes, long-time
ago. The first five months did that — ^but
. . . There was the habit — ^the habit of her
person, of her smile, of her gestures, of
her voice, of her silence. She had a
pure brow, and good hair. How utterly
wretched all this was. Good hair and
fine eyes — ^remarkably fine. He was sur-
prised by the number of details that in-
truded upon his unwilling memory. He
could not help remembering her foot-

229

Talcs of Unrest%

steps, the rustle of her dress, her way of
holding her head, her decisive manner of
saying " Alvan,'* the quiver of her nostrils
when she was annoyed. All that had been
so much his property, so intimately and
specially his! He raged in a mournful, si-
lent way, as he took stock of his losses. He
was like a man counting the cost of an un-
lucky speculation — irritated, depressed —
exasperated with himself and with others,
with the fortunate, with the indifferent,
with the callous; yet the wrong done him
appeared so cruel that he would perhaps
have dropped a tear over that spoliation if
it had not been for his conviction that men
do not weep. Foreigners do; they also kill
sometimes in such circumstances. And to
his horror he felt himself driven to regret
almost that the usages of a society ready to
forgive the shooting of a burglar forbade
him, under the circumstances, even as much
as a thought of murder. Nevertheless, he
clenched his fists and set his teeth hard.
And he was afraid at the same time. He
was afraid with that penetrating faltering
fear that seems, in the very middle of a beat,

230

The Return

to turn one's heart into a handful of dust.
The contamination of her crime spread out,
tainted the universe, tainted himself; woke
up all the dormant infamies of the world;
caused a ghastly kind of clairvoyance in
which he could see the towns and fields of
the earth, its sacred places, its temples and
its houses, peopled by monsters — ^by mon-
sters of duplicity, lust, and murder. She
was a monster — he himself was thinking
monstrous thoughts . . . and yet he was
like other people. How many men and
women at this very moment were plunged
in abominations — meditated crimes. It was
frightful to think of. He remembered all
the streets — ^the well-to-do streets he had
passed on his way home; all the innumera-
ble houses with closed doors and curtained
windows. Each seemed now an abode of
anguish and folly. And his thought, as if
appalled, stood still, recalling with dismay
the decorous and frightful silence that was
like a conspiracy; the grim, impenetrable
silence of miles of walls concealing passions,
misery, thoughts of crime. Surely he was
not: the only man; his was not the only

231

Tales of Unrest

house . . . and yet no one knew — ^no one
guessed. But he knew. He knew with un*
erring certitude that could not be deceived
by the correct silence of walls, of dosed
doors, of curtained windows. He was be^
side himself with a despairing agitation, like
a man informed of a deadly secret — ^the
secret of a calamity threatening the safety
of mankind — ^the sacredness, the peace of
life.

He caught sight of himself in one of the
looking-glasses. It was a relief. The an-
guish of his feeling had been so powerful
that he more than half expected to see some
distorted wild face there, and he was pleas-
antly surprised to see nothing of the kind.
His aspect, at any rate, would let no one
into the secret of his pain. He examined
himself with attention. His trousers were
turned up, and his boots a little muddy, but
he looked very much as usual. Only his
hair was slightly ruffled, and that disorder,
somehow, was so suggestive of trouble that
he went quickly to the table, and began to
use the brushes, in an anxious desire to ob-
literate the compromising trace, that only

232

The Return

vestige of his emotion. He brushed with
care, watching the effect of his smoothing;
and another face, slightly pale and more
tense than was perhaps desirable, peered
back at him from the toilet glass. He laid
the brushes down, and was not satisfied. He
took them up again and brushed, brushed
mechanically — forgot himself in that oc-
cupation. The ttunult of his thoughts ended
in a sluggish flow of reflection, such as,
after the outburst of a volcano, the almost
imperceptible progress of a stream of lava,
creeping languidly over a convulsed land
and pitilessly obliterating any landmark left
by the shock of the earthquake. It is a de-
structive but, by comparison, it is a peace-
ful phenomenon. Alvan Hervey was al-
most soothed by the deliberate pace of his
thoughts. His moral landmarks were go-
ing one by one, consumed in the fire of his
experience, buried in hot mud, in ashes.
He was cooling — on the surface; but there
was enough he^t left somewhere to make
him slap the brushes on the table, and turn-
ing away, say in a fierce whisper: '' I wish
him joy • . . Damn the woman.*'

233

Tales of Unrest

He felt himself utterly corrupted by her
wickedness, and the most significant symp-
tom of his moral downfall was the bitter,
acrid satisfaction with which he recognised
it. He, deliberately, swore in his thoughts;
he meditated sneers; he shaped in profound
silence words of cynical unbelief, and his
most cherished convictions stood revealed
finally as the narrow prejudices of fools.
A crowd of shapeless, unclean thoughts
crossed his mind in a stealthy rush, like a
band of veiled malefactors hastening to a
crime. He put his hands deep into his pock-
ets. He heard a faint ringing somewhere,
and muttered to himself: " I am not the
only one . . . not the only one." There
was another ring. Front door!

His heart leaped up into his throat, and
forthwith descended as low as his boots. A
call! Who? Why? He wanted to rush out
on the landing and shout to the servant:
" Not at home! Gone away abroad! "...
Any excuse. He could not face a visitor.
Not this evening. No. To-jfiorrow. . . .
Before he could break out of the numbness,
that enveloped him like a sheet of lead* he

314

The Return

heard far below, as if in the entrails of the
earth, a door close heavily. The house vi-
brated to it more than to a clap of thunder.
He stood still, wishing himself invisible.
The room was very chilly. He did not
think he would ever feel like that. But peo-
ple must be met — they must be faced —
talked to— smiled at. He heard another
door, much nearer — ^the door of the draw-
ing-room — being opened and flung to
again. He imagined for a moment he
would faint. How absurd! That kind of
thing had to be gone through. A voice
spoke. He could not catch the words. Then
the voice spoke again, and footsteps were
heard on the first floor landing. Hang it all !
Was he to hear that voice and those foot-
steps whenever any one spoke or moved?
He thought: " This is like being haunted—
I suppose it will last for a week or so, at
least. Till I forget. Forget I Forget!"
Some one was coming up the second flight
of stairs. Servant? He listened; then,
suddenly, as though an incredible, frightful
revelation had been shouted to him from a
distance, he bellowed out in the wipty

«3S

Tides of Unrest

room : " What ! What ! *' in such a fiendish
tone as to astonish himself. The {ootstq>s
stopped outside the door* He stood open-
mouthed, maddened and still* as if in the
midst of a catastrophe. The door-handle
rattled lightly. It seemed to him that the
walls were coming apart, that the furniture
swayed at him; the ceiling slanted queerly
for a moment, a tall wardrobe tried to
topple over. He caught hold of some-
thing, and it was the back of a chair. So he
had reeled against a chair 1 Oh! Con-
found it! He gripped hard.

The flaming butterfly poised between the
jaws of the bronze dragon radiated a glare,
a glare that seemed to leap up all at once
into a crude, blinding fierceness, and made
it difficult for him to distinguish plainly the
figure of his wife standing upright with her
back to the closed door. He looked at her
and could not detect her breathing. The
harsh and violent light was beating on her,
and he was amazed to see her preserve so
well the composure of her upright attitude
itt that scordiing brilliance which, to hit

The Return

eyes, enveloped her like a hot and consum*
ing mist. He would not have been sur^
prised if she had vanished in it as suddenly
as she had appeared. He stared and lis-
tened; listened for some sound, but the
silence round him was absolute — as though
he had in a moment g^own completely deaf
as well as dim-eyed. Then ^is hearing re-
turned, pretematurally sharp. He heard
the patter of a rain-shower on the window
panes behind the lowered blinds, and below,
far below, in the artificial abyss of the
square, the deadened roll of wheels and the
splashy trotting of a horse. He heard a
groan also— very distinct — ^in the room —
dose to his ear.

He thought with alarm : " I must have
made that noise myself; " and at the same
instant the woman left the door, stepped
firmly across the floor before him, and sat
down in a chair. He knew that step.
There was no doubt about it She had
come back ! And he very nearly said aloud :
** Of course ! '' — ^such was his sudden and
masterful perception of the indestructible
character of her being. Nothing cotdd de-

837

Tales of Unrest

troy her — ^and nothing but his own destntc-
tion could keep her away. She was the
incarnation of all the short moments which
every man spares out of his life for dreams,
for precious dreams that concrete the most
cherished^ the most profitable of his illu-
sions. He peered at her with inward trep-
idation. She was mysterious, sig^ficant,
full of obscure meaning — ^like a symbol.
He peered, bending forward, as though he
had been discovering about her things he
had never seen before. Unconsciously he
made a step towards her — ^then another.
He saw her arm make an ample, decided
movement — ^and he stopped. She had lifted
her veil. It was like the lifting of a vizor.

The spell was broken. He experienced
a shock as though he had been called out
of a trance by the sudden noise of an explo-
sion. It was even more startling and more
distinct; it was an infinitely more intimate
change, for he had the sensation of having
come into this room only that very mo-
ment; of having returned from very far; he
was made aware that some essential part of
himself had in a flash returned into his

838

The Return

body, returned finally from a fierce and lam*
entable region, from the dwelling-place of
unveiled hearts. He woke up to an amazing
infinity of contempt, to a droll bitterness of
wonder, to a disenchanted conviction of
safety. He had a glimpse of the irresistible
force, and he saw also the barrenness of his
convictions— of her convictions. It seemed
to him that he could never make a mistake
as long as he lived. It was morally impos-
sible to go wrong. He was not elated by
that certitude; he was dimly uneasy about
its price; there was a chill as of death in
this triumph of sound principles, in this
victory snatched under the very shadow of
disaster.

The last trace of his previous state of
mind vanished, as the instantaneous and
elusive trail of a bursting meteor vanishes
on the profound blackness of the sky; it was
the faint flicker of a painful thought, gone
as soon as perceived, that nothing but her
presence — after all — ^had the power to recall
him to himself. He stared at her. She
sat with her hands on her lap, looking
down; and he noticed that her boots were

239

Tales of Unrest

dirty, her skirts wet and splashed, at'
though she had been driven back there by
a blind fear through a waste of mud. He
was indignant, amazed and shocked, but in
a natural, healthy way now; so that he
could control those unprofitable sentiments
by the dictates of cautious self-restraint.
The light in the room had no unusual brill-
iance now; it was a good light in which he
could easily observe the expression of her
face. It was that of dull fatigue. And the
silence that surrounded them was the nor-
mal silence of any quiet house, hardly dis-
turbed by the faint noises of a respectable
quarter of the town. He was very cool —
and it was quite coolly that he thought how
much better it would be if neither of them
ever spoke again. She sat with closed lips,
with an air of lassitude in the stony forget-
fulness of her pose, but after a moment she
lifted her drooping eyelids and met his
tense and inquisitive stare by a look that
had all the formless eloquence of a cry. It
penetrated, it stirred without informing; it
was the very essence of anguish stripped of
words that can be smiled at, argued away*

940

The Return

shouted down, disdained. It was anguish
naked and unashamed, the bare pain of
existence let loose upon the world in the
fleeting unreserve of a look that had in it
an immensity of fatigue, the scornful sin-
cerity, the black impudence of an extorted
confession. Alvan Hervey was seized with
wonder, as though he had seen something
inconceivable; and some obscure part of his
being was ready to exclaim with him: ** I
would never have believed it! " but an in-
stantaneous revulsion of wounded suscep-
tibilities checked the unfinished thought.
He felt full of rancorous indignation
against the woman who could look like this
at one. This look probed him; it tampered
with him. It was dangerous to one as
would be a hint of unbelief whispered by
a priest in the august decorum of a temple;
and at the same time it was impure, it was
disturbing, like a cynical consolation mut-
tered in the dark, tainting the sorrow, cor-
roding the thought, poisoning the heart.
He wanted to ask her furiously: " Who do
you take me for? How dare you look at
me like this ? " He felt himself helpleM

S6 941

Tales of Unrest

before the hidden meaning of that look ; he
resented it with pained and futile violence
as an injury so secret that it could never,
never be redressed. His wish was to crush
her by a single sentence. He was stainless.
Opinion was on his side; morality, men and
gods were on his side; law, conscience —
all the world! She had nothing but that
look. And he could only say:
" How long do you intend to stay here? **
Her eyes did not waver, her lips remained
closed; and for any effect of his words he
might have spoken t6 a dead woman, only
that this one breathed quickly. He was
profoundly disappointed by what he had
said. It was a great deception, something
in the nature of a treason. He had de-
ceived himself. It should have been al-
together different— other words — ^another
sensation. And before his eyes, so fixed
that at times they saw nothing, she sat ap-
parently as unconscious as though she had
been alone, sending that look of brazen
confession straight at him — ^with an air of
staring into empty space. He said signif-
icantly:

24a

The Return

"Must I go then?" And he knew he
meant nothing of what he implied.

One of her hands on her lap moved
slightly as though his words had fallen
there and she had thrown them oflf on the
floor. But her silence encouraged him.
Possibly it meant remorse — ^perhaps fear.
Was she thunderstruck by his attitude?
. . . Her eyelids dropped. He seemed to
understand ever so much — everything!
Very well — but she must be made to suffer.
It was due to him. He understood every-
thing, yet he judged it indispensable to say
with an obvious affection of civility:

" I don't understand — ^be so good as
to ..."

She stood up. For a second he believed
she intended to go away, and it was as
though some one had jerked a string at-
tached to his heart. It hurt. He re-
mained open-mouthed and silent. But she
made an irresolute step towards him, and
instinctively he moved aside. They stood
before one another, and the fragments of
the torn letter lay between them — ^at their
feet — like an insurmountable obstacle, like

«43

Tales of Unrest

a sign of eternal separation I Around them
three other couples stood still and face to
face, as if waiting for a signal to begin
some action-^a struggle^ a dispute, or a
dance.

She said: "Don't— Alvan I'' and there
was something that resembled a warning in
the pain of her tone. He narrowed his
eyes as if trying to pierce her with his gaze.
Her voice touched him. He had aspira-
tions after magnanimity, generosity, supe-
riority — ^interrupted, however, by flashes of
indignation and anxiety — ^frightful anxiety
to know how far she had gone. She looked
down at the torn paper. Then she looked
up, and their eyes met again, remained
fastened together, like an unbreakable
bond, like a clasp of eternal complicity;
and the decorous silence, the pervading
quietude of the house, which enveloped this
meeting of their glances became for a mo-
ment inexpressibly vile, for he was afraid
she would say too much and make magna-
nimity impossible, while behind the pro-
found moumfulness of her face there was
a regret— « regret of things done-<^c re^

•44

The Return

fret of dday — the thought that if she had
only turned back a week sooner — ^a day
sooner— only an hour sooner. . . . They
were afraid to hear again the sound of their
voices; they did not know what they might
say — ^perhaps something that could not be
recalled; and words are more terrible than
facts. But the tricky fatality that lurks in
obscure impulses spoke through Alvan
Hervey's lips suddenly; and he heard his
own voice with the excited and sceptical
curiosity with which one listens to actors'
voices speaking on the stage in the strain
of a poignant situation.

** If you have forgotten anything • • • of
course • • • I. • . .''

Her eyes blazed at him for an instant; her
lips trembled — ^and then she also became
the mouthpiece of the mysterious force for
ever hovering near us; of that perverse
inspiration, wandering capricious and un-
controllable, like a gust of wind.

'* What is the good of this, Alvan? . . .
You know why I came back. • • • You
know that I could not . . .''

He interrupted her with irritatkm.

Tales of Unrest

**Tkeii — ^what's this? "he asked, point-
ing downwards at the torn letter.

"That's a mistake/' she said hurriedly, \

in a muffled voice.

This answer amazed him. He remained
speechless, staring at her. He had half a
mind to burst into a laugh. It ended in a
smile as involuntary as a grimace of pdn«

" A mistake . . ." he began slowly, and
then found himself unable to say another
word.

" Yes ... it was honest," she said very
low, as if speaking to the memory of a feel*
ing in a remote past.

He exploded.

" Curse your honesty! ... Is there any
honesty in all this! • . . When did you be-
gin to be honest? Why are you here? What
are you now? . . . Still honest? . . ."

He walked at her, raging, as if blind ;
during these three quick strides he lost
touch of the material world and was whirled
interminably through a kind of empty uni-
verse made up of nothing but fury and
anguish, till he came suddenly upon her
bce~very do6t to his. He stopped short*

94/S

The Return

and all at once seemed to remember some'
thing heard ages ago.

" You don't know the meaning of the
word," he shouted.

She did not flinch. He perceived with
fear that ever}rthing around him was still.
She did not move a hair's breadth; his own
body did not stir. An imperturbable calm
enveloped their two motionless figures, the
house, the town, all the world — and the
trifling tempest of his feelings. The vio-
lence of the short tumult within him had
been such as could well have shattered all
creation ; and yet nothing was changed.
He faced his wife in the familiar room in
his own house. It had not fallen. And
right and left all the innumerable dwellings,
standing shoulder to shoulder, had resisted
the shock of his passion, had presented,
unmoved, to the loneliness of his trouble,
the grim silence of walls, the impenetrable
and polished discretion of closed doors and
curtained windows. Immobility and si-
lence pressed on him, assailed him, like two
accomplices of the immovable and mute
woman before his eyes. He was suddenly

247

Talcs of Unrest

vanquished. He was shown his impotence.
He was soothed by the breath of a corrupt
resignation coming to him through the
subtle irony of the surrounding peace.

He said with villainous composure:

** At any rate it isn't enough for me. I
want to know more — ^if you're going to
stay."

" There is nothing more to tell,'' she an*
swered sadly.

It struck him as so very true that he did
not say anything. She went on:

" You wouldn't understand. . . ."

** No? " he said quietly. He held himself
tight not to burst out into howls and im-
precations.

'' I tried to be faithful . • .'' she began
again.

'' And this? '* he exclaimed, pdnting at
the fragments of her letter.

'' This — this is a failure/' she said.

'' I should think so/' he muttered bitterly.

"I tried to be faithful to myself — ^Alvan—
and • • • and honest to you. . . ."

** If you had tried to be faithful to me it
would have been more to the purpose," be

248

The Return

fatcrruptcd angrily. " I've been faithful to
you — ^and you have spoiled my life — ^both
our lives . . ." Then after a pause the un-
conquerable preoccupation of self came
out, and he raised his voice to ask resent-
fully, " And, pray, for how long have you
been making a fool of me? "

She seemed horribly shocked by that
question. He did not wait for an answer,
but went on moving about all the time; now
and then coming up to her, then wandering
off restlessly to the other end of the room.

" I want to know. Everybody knows, I
suppose, but myself — and that's your hon-
esty!"

"I have told you there is nothing to
know/' she said, speaking unsteadily as if
in pain. " Nothing of what you suppose.
You don't understand me. This letter is
the beginning — ^and the end."

"The end — ^this thing has no end,"
he clamoured unexpectedly. "Can't you
understand that? I can. . . . The begin-
ning . . ."

He stopped and looked into her eyes with
concentrated intensity, with a desire to see,

249

Tales of Unrest

to penetrate, to understand, that made him
positively hold his breath till he gasped.

'^ By Heavens 1 ^ he said, standing per-
fectly still in a peering attitude and within
less than a foot from her. " By Heavens! ''
he repeated slowly, and in a tone whose in-
voluntary strangeness was a complete mys-
tery to himseli "By Heavens — ^I could
believe you — ^I could believe anything —
now!"

He turned short on his heel and began to
walk up and down the room with an air of
having disburdened himself of the final pro-
nouncement of his life — of having said
something on which he would not go back,
even if he could. She remained as if rooted
to the carpet Her eyes followed the rest-
less movements of the man, who avoided
looking at her. Her wide stare clung to
him, inquiring, wondering and doubtful.

" But the fellow was for ever sticking in
here," he burst out distractedly. "He
made love to you, I suppose — ^and, and
. . /* He lowered his voice. " And — ^you
let him.*'

" And I let him/' she murmured, catch-

The Return

ing his intonation, so that her voice
sounded unconscious, sounded far off and
slavish, like an echo.

He said twice, " You! You! '* violently,
then calmed down. ^' What could you see
in the fellow?" he asked, with unaffected
wonder. "An effeminate, fat ass. What
could you . . . Weren't you happy ?
Didn't you have all you wanted? Now—
frankly; did I deceive your expectations in
any way? Were you disappointed with our
position— or with our prospects — ^perhaps?
You know you couldn't be — ^they are much
better than you could hope for when you
married me. • . • '

He forgot himself so far as to gesticulate
a little while he went on with animation.

"What could you expect from such a
fellow ? He's an outsider — sl rank out-
sider. • • • If it hadn't been for my money
... do you hear? ... for my money, he
wouldn't know where to turn. His people
won't have an3rthing to do with him. The
fellow's no class — ^no class at all. He's
useful, certainly, that's why I ... I
thought you had enough intelligence te see

351

The Return

his question. But he could not read any-
thing, he could gather no hint of her
thought. He tried to suppress his desire
to shout, and, after waiting awhile, said
with incisive scorn:

"Did you want me to write absurd verse*,
to sit and look at you for hours — ^to talk to
you about your soul? You ought to have
known I wasn't that sort. ... I had some-
thing better to do. But if you think I was
totally blind ..."

He perceived in a flash that he could re*
member an infinity of enlightening occur-
rences. He could recall ever so many dis-
tinct occasions when he came upon them;
he remembered the absurdly interrupted
gesture of his fat, white hand, the rapt ex-
pression of her face, the glitter of unbeliev-
ing eyes; snatches of incomprehensible con-
versations not worth listening to, silences
that had meant nothing at the time and
seemed now illuminating like a burst of sun-
shine. He remembered all that. He had
not been blind. Oh^ No! And to know
this was an exquisite relief; it brought back
all his composure.

353

Tales of Unrest

^ I thought it beneath me to suspect yoOt**
he said loftily.

The sound of that sentence evidently pos-
sessed some magical power, because, as
soon as he had spoken, he felt wonderfully
at ease; and directly afterwards he ex-
perienced a flash of joyful amazement at the
discovery that he could be inspired to such
noble and truthful utterance. He watched
the effect of his words. They caused her to
glance at him quickly over her shoulder.
He caught a glimpse of wet eyelashes, of
a red cheek with a tear running down
swiftly; and then she turned away again and
sat as before, covering her face with her
hands.

" You ought to be perfectly frank with
me," he said slowly.

" You know everything," she answered
indistinctly through her fingers.

"This letter. . . . Yes . • . but . . •**

" And I came back," she exclaimed in a
stifled voice; " you know everything/'

" I am glad of it — ^for your sake," he said
with impressive gravity. He listened to
himself with solemn emotion. It seemed

354

The Return

to him that something inexpressibly mo-
mentous was in progress within the room,
that every word and every gesture had the
importance of events preordained from the
beginning of all things, and summing up
in their finality the whole purpose of cre-
ation.

" For your sake," he repeated.

Her shoulders shook as though she had
been sobbing, and he forgot himself in the
contemplation of her hair. Suddenly he
gave a start, as if waking up, and asked
very gently and not much above a whisper —

" Have you been meeting him often? "

" Never ! " she cried into the palms of her
hands.

This answer seemed for a moment to take
from him the power of speech. His lips
moved for some time before any sound
came.

"You preferred to make love here —
under my very nose," he said furiously. He
calmed down instantly, and felt regretfully
uneasy, as though he had let himself down
in her estimation by that outburst. She
rose, and with her hand on the back of the

Talcs of Unrest

chair confronted him with eyes that were
perfectly dry now. There was a red spot
on each of her cheeks.

" When I made up my mind to go to
him— I wrote," she said.

" But you didn't go to him," he took up
in the same tone. " How far did you go ?
What made you come back ? "

" I didn't know myself," she murmured.
Nothing of her moved but the lips. He
fixed her sternly.

" Did he expect this ? Was he waiting
for you ? " he asked.

She answered him by an almost imper-
ceptible nod, and he continued to look at
her for a good while without making a
sound. Then, at last —

" And I suppose he is waiting yet ? " he
asked quickly.

Again she seemed to nod at him. For
some reason he felt he must know the time.
He consulted his watch gloomily. Half-
past seven.

" Is he? " he muttered, putting the watch
in his pocket. He looked up at her, and,
as if suddenly overcome by a sense of

256

Th? Return

sinister fun, gave a shor^ harsh laugb»
directly repressed.

" No ! It's the most unheard ! . • •" he
mumbled while she stood before him biting
her lower lip, as if plunged in deep thought.
He laughed again in one low burst that was
as spiteful as an imprecation. He did not
know why he felt such an overpowering and
sudden distaste for the facts of existence —
for facts in general — ^such an immense dis-
gust at the thought of all the many days
already lived through. He was wearied.
Thinking seemed a labour beyond his
strength. He said —

"You deceived me — ^now you make a
fool of him. . . . It's awful ! Why ? ''

*' I deceived myself ! " she exclaimed.

" Oh ! Nonsense ! " he said impatiently.

" I am ready to go if you wish it," she
went on quickly. " It was due to you — ^to
be told — ^to know. No ! I could not ! " she
cried, and stood still wringing her hands
stealthily.

"I am glad you repented before it was
too late,'' he said in a dull tone and looking
at his boots. '' I am glad . • . some spark

17 «S7

Tales of Unrest

of better feeling/' he muttered, as if to him-
self. He lifted up his head after a moment
of brooding silence. " I am glad to see that
there is some sense of decency left in you,"
he added a little louder. Looking at her he
appeared to hesitate, as if estimating the
possible consequences of what he wished to
say, and at last blurted out —

" After all, I loved you. . . /*

" I did not know," she whispered.

" Good God ! " he cried. " Why do you
imagine I married you ? "

The indelicacy of his obtuseness angered
her.

** Ah — ^why ? " she said through her teeth.

He appeared overcome with horror,
and watched her lips intently as though in
fear.

"I imagined many things," she said
slowly, and paused. He watched, holding
his breath. At last she went on musingly,
as if thinking aloud: "I tried to under-
stand. I tried honestly. . . . Why ? . . .
To do the usual thing — I suppose. ... To
please yourself."

He walked away smartly, and when &

258

The Return

came back, close to her, he had a flushed
face.

" You seemed pretty well pleased too-— at
the time," he hissed, with scathing fury. " I
needn't ask whether you loved me."

"' I know now I was perfectly incapable
of such a thing," she said calmly. '' If I
had, perhaps you would not have married

me.

It's very clear I would not have done it
if I had known you — ^as I know you now."

He seemed to see himself proposing to
her — ^ages ago. They were strolling up the
slope of a lawn. Groups of people were
scattered in sunshine. The shadows of
leafy boughs lay still on the short grass.
The coloured sunshades far off, passing be*
tween trees, resembled deliberate and brill-
iant butterflies moving without a flutter.
Men smiling amiably, or else very grave,
within the impeccable shelter of their black
coats, stood by the side of women who,
clustered in dear summer toilettes, recalled
all the fabulous tales of enchanted gardens
where animated flowers smile at bewitched
knights. There was a sumptuous serenity

aS9

laics oi Unrest

in it ally a thin^ vibrating excitement^ the
perfect security, as of an invincible igno-
rance, that evoked within him a transcen-
dent belief in felicity as the lot of all man-
kind, a recklessly picturesque desire to get
promptly something for himself only, out
of that splendour unmarred by any shadow
of a thought. The girl walked by his side
across an open space; no one was near, and
suddenly he stood still, as if inspired, and
spoke. He remembered looking at her
pure eyes, at her candid brow; he remem-
bered glancing about quickly to see if they
were being observed, and thinking that
nothing could go wrong in a world of so
much charm, purity, and distinction. He
was proud of it He was one of its makers,
of its possessors, of its guardians, of its ex-
tollers. He wanted to grasp it solidly, to get
as much gratification as he could out of it;
and in view of its incomparable quality, of
its unstained atmosphere, of its nearness to
the heaven of its choice, this gust of brutal
desire seemed the most noble of aspirations.
In a second he lived again through all these
moments, and then all the pathos of his

960

The Return

failure presented itself to him with such
vividness that there was a suspicion of tears
in his tone when he said almost unthink-
ingly, " My God I I did love you I "

She seemed touched by the emotion of his
voice. Her lips quivered a little, and she
made one faltering step towards him, put*
ting out her hands in a beseeching gesture,
when she perceived, just in time, that being
absorbed by the tragedy of his life he had
absolutely forgotten her very existence.
She stopped, and her outstretched arms fell
slowly. He, with his features distorted by
the bitterness of his thought, saw neither
her movement nor her gesture. He
stamped his foot in vexation, rubbed his
head — ^then exploded.

" What the devil am I to do now ? *'

He was still again. She seemed to under-
stand, and moved to the door firmly.

" It's very simple — I'm going/' she said
aloud.

At the sound of her voice he gave a start
of surprise, looked at her wildly, and asked
isi a piercing tone —

•'You. ... Where? Tohim?*'

a6i

Tales of Unrest

'* No— alone — ^goodbye.**

The door-handle rattled under her grop-
ing hand as though she had been trying to
get out of some dark place.

" No — stay ! *' he cried.

She heard him faintly. He saw her
shoulder touch the lintel of the door. She
swayed as if dazed. There was less than a
second of suspense while they both felt as
if poised on the very edge of moral annihila-
tion, ready to fall into some devouring no-
where. Then, dmost simultaneously, he
shouted, " Come back ! " and she let go the
handle of the door. She turned round in
peaceful desperation like one who deliber-
ately has thrown away the last chance of
life; and, for a moment, the room she faced
appeared terrible, and dark, and safe — ^like
a grave.

He said, very hoarse and abrupt: "It
can't end like this. ... Sit down;*' and
while she crossed the room again to the low-
backed chair before the . dressing-table, he
opened the door and put his head out to
look and listen. The house was quiet He
came back pacified, and asked-^

262

The Return

" Do you speak the truth ? "

She nodded.

*' You have lived a lie, though/' he said
suspiciously.

" Ah ! You made it so easy/' she an-
swered.

" You reproach me — ^me I *'

" How could I ? " she said; " I would
have you no other — ^now."

" What do you mean by . . /' he began,
then checked himself, and without waiting
for an answer went on, " I won't ask any
questions. Is this letter the worst of it ? "

She had a nervous movement of her
hands.

''I must have a plain answer,'' he said
hotly.

"Then, no! The worst is my coming
back."

There followed a period of dead silence,
during which they exchanged searching
glances.

He said authoritatively —

" You don't know what you are saying.
Your mind is unhinged. You are beside
yourself, or you would not say such things.

163

Tales of Unrest

Yon can't control yourself. Even in your
remorse • . ^ He paused a moment, then
said with a doctoral air: '* Self-restraint is
everything in life, you know. It's happiness,
it's dignity . . . it's everything."

She was pulling nervously at her hand-
kerchief while he went on watching anx-
iously to see the effect of his words. Noth-
ing satisfactory happened. Only, as he
began to speak again, she covered her face
with both her hands.

" You see where the want of self-restraint
leads to. Pain — humiliation — loss of re-
spect—of friends, of everything that en-
nobles life, that ... All kinds of horrors/*
he concluded abruptly.

She made no stir. He looked at her
pensively for some time as though he
had been concentrating the melancholy
thoughts evoked by the sight of that abased
woman. His eyes became fixed and dull.
He was profoundly penetrated by the so-
lemnity of the moment; he felt deeply the
greatness of the occasion. And more than
ever the walls of his house seemed to en-
^se the sacredness of ideals to which he

t64

The Return

was about to offer a magnificent sacrifice.
He was the high priest of that temple, the
severe guardian of formulas, of rites, of
the pure ceremonial concealing the black
doubts of life. And he was not alone.
Other men too— the best of them — ^kept
watch and ward by the hearthstones that
were the altars of that profitable persuasion.
He understood confusedly that he was part
of an immense and beneficent power, which
had a reward ready for every discretion. He
dwelt within the invincible wisdom of si-
lence; he was protected by an indestructible
faith that would last for ever, that would
withstand unshaken all the assaults — ^the
loud execrations of apostates, and the secret
weariness of its confessors ! He was in
league with a universe of untold advantages.
He represented the moral strength of a
beautiful reticence that could vanquish all
the deplorable crudities of life — ^fear, dis-
aster, sin— even death itself. It seemed to
him he was on the point of sweeping
triumphantly away all the illusory mysteries
of existence. It was simplicity itself.
" I hope you see now the folly — ^thc utter

265

Tales of Unrest

f(dly of wickedness/' he began in a dull,
sdemn manner. ''You must respect the
conditions of your life or lose all it can give
you. All I Everything I "

He waved his arm once, and three exact
replicas of his face, of his clothes, of his dull
severity, of his solemn grief, repeated the
wide gesture that in its comprehensive
sweep indicated an infinity of moral sweet-
ness, embraced the walls, the hangings, the
whole house, all the crowd of houses out-
side, all the flimsy and inscrutable graves
of the living, with their doors numbered like
the doors of prison-cells, and as impenetra-
ble as the granite of tombstones.

" Yes ! Restraint, duty, fidelity — ^un-
swerving fidelity to what is expected of you.
This— only this — ^secures the reward, the
peace. Everything else we should labour
to subdue — ^to destroy. It's misfortune; it's
disease. It is terrible — ^terrible. We must
not know anything about it — ^we needn't.
It is our duty to ourselves — ^to others. You
do not live all alone in the world — ^and if
you have no respect for the dignity of life,
others have. Life is a serious matter. U

a66

The Return

you don't conform to the highest standards
you are no one — ^it's a kind of death. Didn't
this occur to you ? You've only to look
round you to see the truth of what I am
saying. Did you live without noticing any-
thing, without understanding anything?
From a child you had examples before your
eyes — ^you could see daily the beauty, the
blessings of morality, of principles. . • ."

His voice rose and fell pompously in a
strange chant His eyes were still, his stare
exalted and sullen; his face was set, was
hard, was woodenly exulting over the grim
inspiration that secretly possessed him,
seethed within him, lifted him up into a
stealthy frenzy of belief. Now and then he
would stretch out his right arm over her
head, as it were, and he spoke down at that
sinner from a height, and with a sense of
avenging virtue, with a profound and pure
joy as though he could from his steep pin-
nacle see every weighty word strike and hurt
like a punishing stone.

" Rigid principles — ^adherence to what is
right," he finished after a pause.

'' What is right ? " she said indistinctly,
mtfaout uncovering her bee.

96f

Tales of Unrest

" Your mind is diseased ! " he cried, up*
right and austere. "Such a question is
rot — ^utter rot. Look round you — ^there's
your answer, if you only care to see. Noth-
ing that outrages the received beliefs can
be right. Your conscience tells you that.
They are the received beliefs because they
are the best, the noblest, the only possible.
They survive. ..." )

He could not help noticing with pleasure
the philosophic breadth of his view, but he
could not pause to enjoy it, for his inspira-
tion, the call of august truth, carried him on.

"You must respect the moral founda-
tions of a society that has made you what
you are. Be true to it. That's duty — that's
honour — ^that's honesty."

He felt a great glow within him, as
though he had swallowed something hot.
He made a step nearer. She sat up and
looked at him with an ardour of expecta-
tion that stimulated his sense of the supreme
importance of that moment. And as if for-
getting himself he raised his voice very
much.

"'What's right?' you asK me. ThinK

868

The Return

only. What would you have been if you
had gone off with that infernal vagabond ?
. . . What would you have been? . . .
You! My wife! . . /'

He caught sight of himself in the pier
glass, drawn up to his full height, and with
a face so white that his eyes, at the distance,
resembled the black cavities in a skull. He
saw himself as if about to launch impreca-
tions, with his arms uplifted above her
bowed head. He was ashamed of that un-
seemly posture, and put his hands in his
pockets hurriedly. She murmured faintly,
as if to herself —

"Ah! What am I now ? *'

" As it happens you are still Mrs. Alvan
Hervey — ^uncommonly lucky for you, let
me tell you," he said in a conversational
tone. He walked up to the furthest comer
of the room, and, turning back, saw her sit-
ting very upright,, her hands clasped on her
lap, and with a lost, unswerving gaze of her
eyes which stared unwinking, like the eyes
of the blind, at the crude gas flame, blazing
and still, between the jaws of the bronze

dragon.

§69

Tales of Unrest

He came up quite close to her, and strad-
dling his legs a little, stood looking down
at her face for some time without taking
his hands out of his pockets. He seemed
to be turning over in his mind a heap of
words, piecing his next speech out of an
overpowering abundance of thoughts.

" You've tried me to the utmost," he said
at last; and as soon as he said these words
he lost his moral footing, and felt himself
swept away from his pinnacle by a flood of
passionate resentment against the bungling
creature that had come so near to spoiling
his life. " Yes; I've been tried more than
any man ought to be,** he went on with
righteous bitterness. '' It was unfair. What
possessed you to ? . . . What possessed
you ? . . . Write such a . . . After five
years of perfect happiness ! 'Pon my word,
no one would believe. . . . Didn't you fed
jrou couldn't ? Because you couldn't . . .
it was impossible — ^you know. Wasn't it ?
Think. Wasn't it?"

" It was impossible," she whispered obe-
diently.

This submissive assent given wiA sodi

a7o

The Return

readiness did not soothe him, did not elate
him; it gave him, inexplicably, that -sense
of terror we experience when in the midst
of conditions we had learned to think abso-
lutely safe we discover all at once the pres-
ence of a near and unsuspected danger. It
was impossible, of course! He knew it.
She knew it. She confessed it. It was
impossible ! That man knew it too— -as
well as any one; couldn't help knowing it
And yet those two had been engaged in a
conspiracy against his peace — ^in a criminal
enterprise for which there could be no sanc-
tion of belief within themselves. There
could not be ! There could not be ! And
yet how near to . . . With a short thrill he
saw himself an exiled, forlorn figure in a
realm of ungovernable, of unrestrained
folly. Nothing could be foreseen, fore-
told — guarded against. And the sensation
was intolerable, had something of the with-
ering horror that may be conceived as fol-
lowing upon the utter extinction of all
hope. In the flash of thought the dis-
honouring episode, seemed to disengage
itself from everything actual, from earthly

371

Tales of Unrest

conditions, and even from earthly suffering;
it became purely a terrifying knowledge, an
annihilating knowledge of a blind and in-
fernal force. Something desperate and
vague, a flicker of an insane desire to abase
himself before the mysterious impulses of
evil, to ask for mercy in some way, passed
through his mind; and then came the idea,
the persuasion, the certitude, that the evil
must be forgotten — ^must be resolutely
ignored to make life possible ; that the
knowledge must be kept out of mind, out
of sight, like the knowledge of certain
death is kept out of the daily existence
of men. He stiffened himself inwardly for
the effort, and next moment it appeared
very easy, amazingly feasible, if one only
kept strictly to facts, gave one's mind to
their perplexities and not to their meaning.
Becoming conscious of a long silence, he
cleared his throat warningly, and said in a
steady voice —

" I am glad you feel this . . . uncom-
monly glad . . . you felt this in time. For,
don't you see . . ." Unexpectedly he hesi*
Uted

§78

The Return

Yes ... I see," she murmured.
Of course you would," he said, looking
at the carpet and speaking like one who
thinks of something else. He lifted his
head. " I cannot believe— even after this —
even after this — ^that you are altogether —
altogether . . . other than what I thought
you. It seems impossible — ^to me."

" And to me," she breathed out.

" Now — ^yes," he said, " but this morn-
ing ? And to-morrow ? . . . This is what

>»

He started at the drift of his words and
broke off abruptly. Every train of thought
seemed to lead into the hopeless realm of
ungovernable folly, to recall the knowledge
and the terror of forces that must be ignored.
He said rapidly —

" My position is very painful-— diffi-
cult ... I feel . . ."

He looked at her fixedly with a pained
air, as though frightfully oppressed by a
sudden inability to express his pent-up
ideas.

" I am ready to go," she said very low.
" I have forfeited everything ... to learn
• • • to learn • • •"

i8 273

Talcs of Unrest

Her chin fell on her breast; her voice died
out in a sigh. He made a slight gesture of
impatient assent.

" Yes ! Yes ! It's all very well . . .
of course. Forfeited — ^ah I Morally for-
feited—only morally forfeited ... if I am
to believe you ..."

She startled him by jumping up.

" Oh ! I believe, I believe/' he said has-
tily, and she sat down as suddenly as she
had got up. He went on gloomily —

" I've suffered — I suffer now. You can't
understand how much. So much that when
you propose a parting I almost think. . . .
But no. There is duty. You've forgotten
it; I never did. Before heaven, I never did.
But ill a horrid exposure like this the judg-
ment of mankind goes astray — ^at least for
a time. You see, you and I — at least I feel
that — ^you and I are one before the world.
It is as it should be. The world is right —
in the main — or else it couldn't be— couldn't
be — ^what it is. And we are part of it. We
have our duty to— to our fellow beings who
don't want to . . . to . . . er."

He stammered. She looked up at him

9J4

u
it

The Return

with wide eyes, and her lips were slightly
parted. He went on mumbling —

"... Pain. . . . Indignation. • . . Sure
to misunderstand. I've suffered enough.
And if there has been nothing irreparable—
as you assure me . . . then . . ."

" Alvan ! '* she cried.

" What ? " he said morosely. He gazed
down at her for a moment with a sombre
stare, as one looks at ruins, at the devasta*
tion of some natural disaster.

Then," he continued after a short pause,

the best thing is . . . the best for us . . .
for every one. . . . Yes . . . least pain-
most unselfish. . . ." His voice faltered,
and she heard only detached words. " • • •
Duty. • . . Burden. . . . Ourselves. . • .
Silence."

A moment of perfect stillness ensued.

" This is an appeal I am making to your
conscience," he said suddenly, in an explan-
atory tone, "not to add to the wretched-
ness of all this: to try loyally and help me
to live it down somehow. Without any res-
ervations—you know. Loyally! You can't
deny I've been cruelly wronged and — after

275

Talcs of Unrest

all— my affection deserves . . .** He
paused with evident anxiety to hear her
speak.

" I make no reservations," she said
mournfully. " How could I ? I found
myself out and came back to . . ." her
eyes flashed scornfully for an instant "...
to what — ^to what you propose. You sec
... I ... I can be trusted . . . now.**

He listened to every word with profound
attention^ and when she ceased seemed to
wait for more.

" Is that all you've got to say ? " he
asked.

She was startled by his tone, and said
faintly —

" I spoke the truth. What more can I
say ? "

" Confound it ! You might say some-
thing human," he burst out. " It isn't being
truthful; it*s being brazen — ^if you want to
know. Not a word to show you feel your
position, and — and mine. Not a single
word of acknowledgment, or regret — or re-
morse . . . or . . . something."

*' Words ! " she whispered in a tone that
irritated him. He ^tamped his foot

876

The Return

" This is awful I " he exclaimed. Words?
Yes, words. Words mean something-
yes — ^they do — ^for all this infernal affecta-
tion. They mean something to me — ^to
everybody — ^to you. What the devil else
did you use to express those sentiments —
sentiments — ^pah ! — ^which made you forget
me, duty, shame 1 "... He foamed at the
mouth while she stared at him, appalled by
this sudden fury. " Did 3rou two talk only
with your eyes ? " he spluttered savagely.
She rose.

** I can't bear this,** she said, trembling
from head tp foot '' I am going."

They stood facing one another for a mo-
ment

"Not you," he said, with conscious rough-
ness, and began to walk up and down the
room. She remained very still with an air
of listening anxiously to her own heart-
beats, then sank down on the chair slowly,
and sighed, as if giving up a task beyond her
strength.

" You misunderstand everything I say,"
he began quietly, "but I prefer to think
that— just now — ^you are not accountable

«77

Tales of Unrest

for your actions/' He stopped again before
her. ''Your mind is unhinged/' he said,
with unction. " To go now would be add-
ing crime — ^yes, crime— to folly. Til have
no scandal in my life, no matter what% the
cost. And why? You are sure to mis-
understand me — but I'll tell you. As a
matter of duty. Yes. But you're sure to
misunderstand me — recklessly. Women
always do--*they are too— 4oo narrow-
minded."

He waited for a while, but she made no
sound, didn't even look at him; he felt un-
easy, painfully uneasy, like a man who sus-
pects he is unreasonably niistrusted. To
combat that exasperating sensation he re-
commenced talking very fast. The sound of
his words excited his thoughts, and in the
play of darting thoughts he had glimpses
now and then of the inexpugnable rock of
his convictions, towering in solitary grand-
eur above the unprofitable waste of errors
and passions.

" For it is self-evident/' he went on, with
anxious vivacity, " it is self-evident that, on
the highest ground, we haven't the right—-

878

The Return

•

no» we haven't the right to intrude our
miseries upon those who— who naturadly
expect better things from us. Every one
wishes his own life and the life around him
to be beautiful and pure. Now, a scandal
amongst people of our position is disastrous
for the morality — ^a fatal influence— don't
you see — ^upon the general tone of the
class — ^very important — ^the most important,
I verily believe, in — ^in the community. I
feel this — ^profoundly. This is the broad
view. In time you'll give me . • • when
you become again the woman I loved — and
trusted. • . ."

He stopped short, as though wiex-
pectedly suffocated, then in a completely
changed voice said, ** For I did love and
trust you " — and again was silent for a mo-
ment She put her handkerchief to her
eyes.

" Youll give me credit for — ^for — ^my mo-
tives. It's mainly loyalty to— to the larger
conditions of our life — ^where you — ^you 1 of
all women — ^biled. One doesn't usually
talk like this— of course — ^but in this case
you'll admit. . • . And consider—the inno-

«79

Tales of Unrest

•

cent suffer with the guilty. The wcM-ld is
pitiless in its judgments. Unfortunately
there are always those in it who are only too
eager to riUsunderstand. Before you and
before my conscience I am guiltless, but
any — any disclosure would impair my use-
fulness in the sphere — in the larger sphere
in which I hope soon to . • • I believe you
fully shared my views in that matter — ^I
don't want to say any more . . . on — on
that point — ^but, believe me, true unselfish-
ness is to bear one's burdens in — ^in silence.
The ideal must — ^must be preserved — ^for
others, at least. It's clear as daylight. If
I've a — ^a loathsome sore, to gratuitously
display it would be abominable — ^abomi-
nable I And often in life — in the highest
conception of life— outspokenness in cer-
tain circumstances is nothing less than
criminal. Temptation, you know, excuses
no one. There is no such thing really if
one looks steadily to one's welfare — ^which
is grounded in duty. But there are the
weak." . . . His tone became ferocious for
an instant. . . . "And there are the fools
and the envious— -especially for people in

a8Q

The Return

our position. I am guiltless of this ter-
rible — ^terrible • • • estrangement ; but if
there has been nothing irreparable.** • • •
Something gloomy, like a deep shadow
passed over his face. . . . " Nothing ir-
reparable — ^you see even now I am ready to
irust you implicitly — ^then our duty is clear."

He looked down. A change came over
his expression, and straightway from the
outward impetus of his loquacity he passed
into the dull contemplation of all the ap-
peasing truths that, not without some won-
der, he had so recently been able to discover
within himself. During this profound and
soothing communion with his innermost be-
liefs he remained staring at the carpet, with
a portentously solemn face and with a dull
vacuity of eyes that seemed to gaze into the
blankness of an empty hole. Then, without
stirring in the least, he continued:

" Yes. Perfectly dear. IVe been tried
to the utmost, and I can't pretend that, for
a time, the old feelings — the old feelings are
not. . . .** He sighed. ... " But I for-
give you. . . ."

She made a slight movement without an-

a8i

Tales of Unreit

covering her eyes. In his profoond scm-
tiny of the carpet he noticed nothing. And
there was silence, silence within and silence
without^ as though his words had stilled the
beat and tremor of all the surrounding life,
and the house had stood alone — ^the only
dwelling upon a deserted earth.
He lifted his head and repeated solemnly:
'* I forgive you . . • from a sense of duty
•—and in the hope . . /*

He heard a laugh, and it not only inter-
rupted his words but also destroyed the
peace of his self-absorption with the vile
pain of a reality intruding upon the beauty
of a dream. He couldn't understand
whence the sound came. He could see,
foreshortened, the tear-stained, dolorous
face of the woman stretched out, and with
her head thrown over the back of the seat.
He thought the piercing noise was a delu-
sion. But another shrill peal followed by
a deep sob and succeeded by another shriek
of mirth positively seemed to tear him out
from where he stood. He bounded to the
door. It was closed. He turned the key
and thought: that's no good. . . • ''Stop

sSa

The Return

this ! *^ he cried, and perceived with alarm
that he could hardly hear his own voice in
the midst of her screaming. He darted back
with the idea of stifling that unbearable
noise with his hands, but stood still dis-
tracted, finding himself as unable to touch
her as though she had been on fire. He
shouted, " Enough of this ! '' like men shout
in the tumult of a riot, with a red face and
starting eyes; then, as if swept away before
another burst of laughter, he disappeared
in a flash out of three looking-glasses,
vanished suddenly from before her. For a
time the woman gasped and laughed at no
one in the luminous stillness of the empty
room.

He reappeared, striding at her, and with a
tumbler of water in his hand. He stam-
mered:

" Hysterics — Stop— They will hear—
Drink this." She laughed at the ceiling.
'' Stop this I " he cried. " Ah ! "

He flung the water in her face, putting
into the action all the secret brutality of his
spite, yet still felt that it would have been
perfectly excusable — ^in any one — ^to send

2S3

Tales of Unrest

the tumbler after the water. He restrained
himself, but at the same time was so con-
vinced nothing could stop the horror of
those mad shrieks that, when the first sensa-
tion of relief came, it did not even occur
to him to doubt the impression of having
become suddenly deaf. When, next mo-
ment, he became sure that she was sitting
up, and really very quiet, it was as though
ever3rthing — ^men, things, sensations, had
come to a rest He was prepared to be
grateful. He could not take his eyes oft her,
fearing, yet unwilling to admit, the possibil-
ity of her beginning again; for, the ex-
perience, however contemptuously he tried
to think of it, had left the bewilderment of a
mysterious terror. Her face was streaming
with water and tears; there was a wisp of
hair on her forehead, another stuck to her
cheek; her hat was on one side, undeco-
rously tilted; her soaked veil resembled a
sordid rag festooning her forehead. There
was an utter unreserve in her aspect, an
abandonment of safeguards, that ugliness of
truth which can only be kept out of daily
life by unremitting care for appearances-

S84

The Return

He did not know why, looking at her, he
thought suddenly of to-morrow, and why
the thought called out a deep feeling of un-
utterable, discouraged weariness — a fear of
facing the succession of days. To-morrow I
It was as far as yesterday. Ages elapsed be-
tween sunrises — ^sometimes. He scanned
her features like one looks at a forgotten
country. They were not distorted — ^he rec-
ognised landmarks, so to speak; but it was
only a resemblance that he could see, not
the woman of yesterday— or was it, perhaps,
more than the woman of yesterday ? Who
could tell? Was it something new? A
new expression — or a new shade of expres-
sion? or something deep — ^an old truth un-
veiled^ a fundamental and hidden truth —
some unnecessary, accursed certitude? He
became aware that he was trembling very
much, that he had an empty tumbler in his
hand — ^that time was passing. Still looking
at her with lingering mistrust he reached
towards the table to put the glass down and
was startled to feel it apparently go through
the wood. He had missed the edge. The
surprise, the slight jingling noise of the ac-

28s

Tales of Unrest

cident annoyed him beyond expression. He
tnmed to her irritated.

^ What's the meaning of this ? " he asked
grimly.

She passed her hand over her face and
made an attempt to get up.

" YouVe not going to be absurd again,**
he said. ** Ton my soul, I did not know
you could forget yourself to that extenL"
He didn't try to conceal his physical dis-
gust, because he bdieved it to be a purely
moral reprobation of every unreserve, of
anything in the nature of a scene. " I as-
sure you — ^it was revolting," he went on.
He stared for a moment at her. " Posi-
tively degrading," he added with insistence.

She stood up quickly as if moved by a
spring and tottered. He started forward
instinctively. She caught hold of the back
of the chair and steadied herself. This ar-
rested him, and they faced each other wide-
eyed, uncertain, and yet coming back slowly
to the reality of things with relief and won-
der, as though just awakened after tossing
through a long night of fevered dreams.

^ Pray, don't begin again,** he said hor-

886

The Return

ricdiy, seeing her open her lips. **I de-
serve some little consideration — ^and such
unaccountable behaviour is painful to me.
I expect better things. ... I have the
right "

She pressed both her hands to her tem-
ples.

" Oh, nonsense! " he said sharply. " You
are perfectly capable of coming down to
dinner. No one should even suspect; not
even the servants. No one ! No one !
... I am sure you can."

She dropped her arms; her face twitched.
She looked straight into his eyes and
seemed incapable of pronouncing a werd.
He frowned at her.

" I — ^wish — ^it," he said tyrannically. "For
your own sake also. . . ." He meant to
carry that point without any pity. Why
didn't she speak ? He feared passive re-
sistance. She must. . . . Make her come.
His frown deepened, and he began to thinlc
of some effectual violence, when most un-
expectedly she said in a firm voice, " Yes, I
can," and clutched the chair-back again.
He was relieved, and all at once her attitude

287

Talcs of Unrest

ceased to interest him. The important
thing was that their life would begin again
with an every-day act — ^with something that
could not be misunderstood, that, thank
God, had no moral meaning, no perplex-
ity — ^and yet was symbolic of their uninter-
rupted communion in the past — ^in all the
future. That morning, at that table, they
had breakfast together; and now they would
dine. It was all over ! What had hap-
pened between could be forgotten — ^must
be forgotten, like things that can only hap-
l5en once — death for instance.

" I will wait for you," he said, going to
the door. He had some difficulty with it,
for he did not remember he had turned the
key. He hated that delay, and his checked
impatience to be gone out of the room made
him feel quite ill as, with the consciousness
of her presence behind his back, he fumbled
at the lock. He managed it at last ; then in
the doorway he glanced over his shoulder
to say, " It's rather late — ^you know — ** and
saw her standing where he had left her, with
a face white as alabaster and perfectly still,
like a woman in a trance.

288

The Return

He was afraid she would keep him wait-
ing, but without any breathing time, he
hardly knew how, he found himself sitting
at table with her. He had made up his
mind to eat, to talk, to be natural. It seemed
to him necessary that deception should
begin at home. The servants must not
know — ^must not suspect. This intense de-
sire of secrecy; of secrecy dark, destroying,
profound, discreet like a grave, possessed
him with the strength of a hallucination —
seemed to spread itself to inanimate objects
that had been the daily companions of his
life, affected with a taint of enmity every
single thing within the faithful walls that
would stand for ever between the shameless-
ness of facts and the indignation of mankind.
Even when — ^as it happened once or twice —
both the servants left the room together
he remained carefully natural, industriously
hungry, laboriously at his ease, as though
he had wanted to cheat the black oak side-
board, the heavy curtains, the stiff-backed
chairs, into the belief of an unstained hap-
piness. He was mistrustful of his wife's
sdf-control, unwilling to look at her and
19 a89

Tales of Unrest

relttctant to speak, {or, it seemed to him m«
conceivable that she should not betray her-
self by the slightest movement, by the very
first word spoken. Then he thought the
silence in the room was becoming danger-
ous, and so excessive as to produce the
effect of an intolerable uproar. He wanted
to end it, as one is anxious to interrupt an
indiscreet confession; but with the memory
of that laugh upstairs he dared not give her
an occasion to open her lips. Presently he
heard her voice pronouncing in a calm tone
some unimportant remark. He detached
his eyes from the centre of his plate and felt
excited as if on the point of looking at a
wonder. And nothing could be more
wonderful than her composure. He was
looking at the candid eyes, at the pure brow,
at what he had seen every evening for years
in that place; he listened to the voice that
for five years he had heard every day. Per-
haps she was a little pale — but a healthy
pallor had always been for him one of her
chief attractions. • Perhaps her face was
rigidly set — ^but that marmoreal impassive-
ness, that magnificent stolidity, as of a won-

ago

The Return

derful statue by some great sculptor work-
ing under the curse of the gods; that im-
posing, unthinking stillness of her features,
had till then mirrored for him the tranquil
dignity of a soul of which he had thought
himself — ^as a matter of course — ^the inex-
pugnable possessor. Those were the out-
ward signs of her difference from the igno-
ble herd that feels, suffers, fails, errs — ^but
has no distinct value in the world except as
a moral contrast to the prosperity of the
elect. He had been proud of her appear-
ance. It had the perfectly proper frankness
of perfection — ^and now he was shocked to
see it unchanged She looked like this,
spoke like this, exactly like this, a year ago,
a month ago-— only yesterday when she
. . . What went on within made no differ*
ence. What did she think ? What meant
the pallor, the placid face, the candid brow,
the pure eyes ? ^\liat did she think daring
all these years ? What did she think yester-
day — to-day ; what would she think to-
morrow? He must find ooL . • * And yet
bow could he get to know ? She had been
fOae to tum, to that man, to hendf ; she was

291

Talcs of Unrest

ready to be bise — for him. Always ish^
She looked lies, breathed lies, lived lies-
would tell lies — ^always — to the end of life t
And he would never know what she meant.
Never ! Never ! No one could. Impos-
sible to know.

He dropped his knife and fork, brusqudy,
as though by the virtue of a sudden illumina-
tion he had been made aware of poison in
his plate, and became positive in his mind
that he could never swallow another morsel
of food as long as he lived. The dinner
went on in a room that had been steadily
growing, from some cause, hotter than a
furnace. He had to drink. He drank
time after time, and, at last, recollecting
himself, was frightened at the quantity, till
he perceived that what he had been drink-
ing was water— out of two different wine
glasses ; and the discovered unconscious-
ness of his actions affected him painfully.
He was disturbed to find himself in such an
unhealthy state of mind. Excess of feel-
ing— -excess of feeling; and it was part of
his creed that any excess of feeling was un-
healthy — amorally unprofitable; a taint QO

092

The Return

practical manhood. Her fault. Entirely
her fault. Her sinful self-forgetfulness was
contagious. It made him think thoughts
he had never had before; thoughts disinte-
grating, tormenting, sapping to the very
core of life — ^like mortal disease; thoughts
that bred the fear of air, of sunshine, of
men — ^like the whispered news of a pesti-
lence.

The maids served without noise; and to
avoid looking at his wife and looking within
himself, he followed with his eyes first one
and then the other without being able to
distinguish between them. They moved
silently about, without one being able to see
by what means, for their skirts touched the
carpet all round; they glided here and
there, receded, approached, rigid in black
and white, with precise gestures, and no life
in their faces, like a pair of marionettes in
mourning; and their air of wooden uncon-
cern struck him as unnatural, suspicious, ir-
remediably hostile. That such people's feel-
ings or judgment could affect one in any
way, had never occurred to him before. He
understood they had no prospects, no prin-

293

Tales of Unrest

dples — no refinement and no power. But
now he had become so debased that he could
not even attempt to disguise from himself
his yearning to know the secret thoughts of
his servants. Several times he looked up
covertly at the faces of those girls. Im-
possiUe to know. They changed his plates
and utterly ignored his existence. What
impenetrable duplicity. Women — ^nothing
but women round him. Impossible to
know. He experienced that heart-probing,
fiery sense of dangerous loneliness, which
sometimes assails the courage of a solitary
adventurer in an unexplored country. The
sight of a man's face — ^he felt— of any man's
face, would have been a profound relief.
One would know then — ^something — could
understand. ... He decided he must have
men servants. He would engage a butler
as soon as possible. And then the end of
that dinner — ^which had seemed to have
been going on for hours — ^the end came,
taking him violently by surprise, as though
he had expected in the natural course of
events to sit at that table for ever and ever.
But upstairs in the drawing-room he be-

994

The Return

came the victim of a restless fate, that wouldy
on no account, permit him to sit down. She
had sunk on a low easy-chair, and taking up
from a small table at her elbow a fan with

•

ivory leaves, shaded her face from the fire.
The coals glowed without a flame; and upon
the red glow the vertical bars of the grate
stood out at her feet, black and curved, like
the charred ribs of a consumed sacrifice.
Far off, a lamp perched on a slim brass rod,
burned under a wide shade of crimson silk:
the centre, within the shadows of the large
room, of a fiery twilight that had in the
warm quality of its tint something delicate,
refined and infernal. His soft footfalls and
the subdued beat of the clock on the high
mantel-piece answered each other regularly
— as if time and himself, engaged in a meas-
ured contest, had been pacing together
through the infernal delicacy of twilight
towards a mysterious goal.

He walked from one end of the room to
the other without a pause, like a traveller
who, at night, hastens doggedly upon an
interminable journey. Now and then he
glanced at her. Impossible to know. The

295

Tales of Unrest

gross precision of that thought expressed
to his practical mind something illimitable
and infinitely profound, the all-embracing
subtlety of a feeling, the eternal origin of
his pain. This woman had accepted him,
had abandoned him — ^had returned to him.
And of all this he would never know the
truth. Never. Not till death — ^not after —
not on judgment day when all shall be dis-
closed, thoughts and deeds, rewards and
punishments, but the secret of hearts alone
shall return, for ever unknown, to the In*
scrutable Creator of good and evil, to the
Master of doubts and impulses.

He stood still to look at her. Thrown
back and with her face turned away from
him, she did not stir — ^as if asleep. What
did she think? What did she feel? And in
tjic presence of her perfect stillness, in the
breathless silence, he felt himself insignifi-
cant and powerless before her, like a pris-
oner in chains. The fury of his impotence
called out sinister images, that faculty of
tormenting vision, which in a moment of
anguishing sense of wrong induces a man to
mutter threats or make a menacing gesture

296

The Return

in the solitude of an empty room. But the
gust of passion passed at once, left him
trembling a little, with the wondering, re-
flective fear of a man who has paused on the
very verge of suicide. The serenity of truth
and the peace of death can be only secured
through a largeness of contempt embracing
all the profitable servitudes of life. He
found he did not want to know. Better not.
It was all over. It was as if it hadn't been.
And it was very necessary for both of them,
it was morally right, that nobody should
know.

He spoke suddenly, as if concluding a dis-
cussion.

"The best thing for us is to forget all
this."

She started a little and shut the fan with a
click.

*' ± es, forgive — and forget," he repeated,
as if to himself.

" rU never forget," she said in a vibrat-
ing voice. " And I'll never forgive my-
self. . . ."

"But I, who have nothing to reproach
myself . . ." he began, making a step to-
wards her. She jumped up.

297

Talcs of Unrest

** I did not come back for your forgive*
ness/' she exclaimed passionately, as if
clamouring against an unjust aspersion.

He only said " oh! " and became silent.
He could not understand this unprovoked
aggressiveness of her attitude, and certainly
was very far from thinking that an unpre-
meditated hint of something resembling
emotion in the tone of his last words had
caused that uncontrollable burst of sincerity.
It completed his bewilderment, but he was
not at all angry now. He was as if ber
numbed by the fascination of the incompre-
hensible. She stood before him, tall and
indistinct, like a black phantom in the red
twilight. At last poignantly uncertain as
to what would happen if he opened his lips,
he muttered :

" But if my love is strong enough . . /*
and hesitated.

He heard something snap loudly in the
fiery stillness. She had broken her fan.
Two thin pieces of ivory fell, one after
another, without a sound, on the thick
carpet, ?ind instinctively he stooped to pick
them up. While he groped at her feet it

298

The Return

occurred to him that the woman there had
in her hands an indispensable gift which
nothing else on earth could give; and when
he stood up he was penetrated by an irre-
sistible belief in an enigma, by the convic-
tion that within his reach, and passing away
from him was the very secret of existence —
its certitude, immaterial and precious! She
moved to the door, and he followed at her
elbow, casting about for a magic word that
would make the enigma clear, that would
compel the surrender of the gift. And there
is no such word! The enigma is only made
clear by sacrifice, and the gift of heaven is in
the hands of every man. But they had lived
in a world that abhors enigmas, and cares
for no gifts but such as can be obtained in
the street. She was nearing the door. He
said hurriedly:

" Ton my word, I loved you — ^I love you
now."

She stopped for an almost imperceptible
moment to give him an indignant glance,
and then moved on. That feminine penetra-
tion — ^so clever and so tainted by the eternal
instinct of self-defence, so ready to see an

299

Talcs of Unrest

obvious evil in everything it cannot under-
stand — ^filled her with bitter resentment
against both the men who could offer to the
spiritual and tragic strife of her feelings
nothing but the coarseness of their abom-
inable materialism. In her anger against
her own ineffectual self-deception she found
hate enough for them both. What did they
want? What more did this one want? And
as her husband faced her again, with his
hand on the door-handle, she asked herself
whether he was unpardonably stupid, or
simply ignoble.

She said, nervously, and very fast:

" You are deceiving yourself. You never
loved me. You wanted a wife — ^some
woman — ^any woman that would thinks
speak, and behave in a certain way —
in a way you approved. You loved your-
self."

"You won't believe me?" he asked
slowly.

" If I had believed you loved me," she
began passionately, then drew in a long
breath; and during that pause he heard the
steady beat of blood in his ears. *' If I had

300

The Return

believed it ... I would never have come
back," she finished recklessly.

He stood looking down as though he had
not heard. She waited. After a moment
he opened the door, and, on the landing, the
sightless woman of marble appeared, draped
to the chin, thrusting blindly at them a
cluster of lights.

He seemed to have forgotten himself in a
meditation so deep that on the point of
going out she stopped to look at him in
surprise. While she had been speaking he
had wandered on the track of the enigma,
out of the world of senses into the region of
feeling. What did it matter what she had
done, what she had said, if through the pain
of her acts and words he had obtained the
word of the enigma! There can be no life
without faith and love — ^faith in a human
heart, love of a human being! That touch
of grace, whose help once in life is the privi-
lege of the most undeserving, flung open
for him the portals of beyond, and in con-
templating there the certitude immaterial
and precious he forgot all the meaningless
accidents of existence: the bliss of getting,

301

Talcs of Unrest

the delight of enjoying; all the protean and
enticing forms of the cupidity that rules a
material world of foolish joys, of contempti-
ble sorrows. Faith ! — Love ! — ^the undoubt-
ing, clear faith in the truth of a soul — ^the
great tenderness, deep as the ocean, serene
and eternal, like the infinite peace of space
above the short tempests of the earth. It
was what he had wanted all his life — ^but he
understood it only then for the first time.
It was through the pain of losing her that
the knowledge had come. She had the
gift! She had the gift I And in all the
world she was the only human being
that could surrender it to his immense
desire. He made a step forward, putting
his arms out, as if to take her to his breast,
and, lifting his head, was met by such a look
of blank consternation that his arms fell as
though they had been struck down by a
blow. She started away from him, stumbled
over the threshold, and once on the landing
turned, swift and crouching. The train of
her gown swished as it flew round her feet
It was an undisguised panic. She panted,
showing her teeth, and the hate of strength,

302

The Return

the disdain of weakness, the eternal pre-
occupation of sex came out like a toy demon
out of a box.

'^ This is odious/' she screamed.

He did not stir; but her look, her agitated
movements, the sound of her voice were like
a mist of facts thickening between him and
the vision of love and faith. It vanished;
and looking at that face triumphant and
scornful, at that white face, stealthy and un-
expected, as if discovered staring from an
ambush, he was coming back slowly to the
world of senses. His first clear thought
was: I am married to that woman; and the
next: she will give nothing but what I see.
He felt the need not to see. But the mem-
ory of the vision, the memory that abides for
ever within the seer made him say to her
with the naive austerity of a convert awed
by the touch of a new creed, " You haven't
the gift."

He turned his back on her, leaving her
completely mystified. And she went up-
stairs slowly, struggling with a distasteful
suspicion of having been confronted by
something more subtle than herself — ^more

303

Talcs of Unrest

profound than the misunderstood and tragic
contest of her feelings.

He shut the door of the drawing-room
and moved at hazard, alone amongst the
heavy shadows and in the fiery twilight as
of an elegant place of perdition. She hadn't
the gift — ^no one had. ... He stepped on
a book that had fallen off one of the
crowded little tables. He picked up the
slender volume, and holding it, approached
the crimson-shaded lamp. The fiery tint
deepened of the cover, and contorted gold
letters sprawling all over it in an intri-
cate maze, came out, gleaming redly.
"Thorns and Arabesques." He read it
twice, ** Thorns and Ar . . . , , . ' The
other's book of verses. He dropped it at
his feet, but did not feel the slightest pang of
jealousy or indignation. What did he
know? . . . What? . . . The mass of hot
coals tumbled down in the grate, and he
turned to look at them. . . . Ah! That one
was ready to give up ever3rthing he had for
that woman — ^who did not come — ^who had
not the faith, the love, the courage to come.
What did that man expect, what did he

304

The Return

hope» what did he want? The woman— or
the certitude immaterial and precious! The
first unselfish thought he had ever given to
any human being was for that man who had
tried to do him a terrible wrong. He was
not angry. He was saddened by an im-
personal sorrow, by a vast melancholy as
of all mankind longing for what cannot be
attained. He felt his fellowship with every
man— even with that man— especially with
that man. What did he think now? Had
he ceased to wait — ^and hope? Would he
ever cease to wait and hope? Would he
understand that the woman, who had no
courage, had not the gift — ^had not the
gift!

The clock began to strike, and the deep-
toned vibration filled the room as though
with the sound of an enormous bell tolling
far away. He counted the strokes. Twelve.
Another day had begun. To-morrow had
come; the mysterious and lying to-morrow
that lures men, disdainful of love and faith,
on and on through the poignant futilities of
life to the fitting reward of a grave. He
counted the strokes, and gazing at the grate

» 30s

Tales of Unrest

seemed to wait for more. Then, as if called
out, left the room, walking firmly.

When outside he heard footsteps in the
hall and stood still. A bolt was shot — ^then
another. They were locking up*-shutting
out his desire and his deception from the
indignant criticism of a world full of noble
gifts for those who proclaim themselves
without stain and without reproach. He
was safe; and on all sides of his dwelling
servile fears and servile hopes slept, dream-
ing of success, behind the severe discretion
of doors as impenetrable to the truth within
as the granite of tombstones. A lock
snapped — a short chain rattled. Nobody
shall know!

Why was this assurance of safety heavier
than a burden of fear, and why the day that
began presented itself obstinately like the
last day of all — like a to-day without a to-
morrow? Yet nothing was changed, for
nobody would know; and all would go on
as before — ^the getting, the enjoying, the
blessing of hunger that is appeased every
day; the noble incentives of unappeasable
ambitions. All — all the blessings of life.

306

The Return

All — hvit the certitude immaterial and pre-
cious — ^the certitude of love and faith. He
believed the shadow of it had been with him
as long as he could remember; that invisible
presence had ruled his life. And now the
shadow had appeared and faded he could
not extinguish his longing for the truth of
its substance. His desire of it was naive;
it was masterful like the material aspirations
that are the groundwork of existence, but,
unlike these, it was unconquerable. It was
the subtle despotism of an idea that suffers
no rivals, that is lonely, inconsolable, and
dangerous. He went slowly up the stairs.
Nobody shall know. The days would go
on and he would go far — ^very far. If the
idea could not oe mastered, fortune could
be, men could be — ^the whole world. He
was dazzled by the greatness of the pros-
pect; the brutality of a practical instinct
shouted to him that only that which could
be had was worth having. He lingered on
the steps. The lights were out in the hall,
and a small yellow flame flitted about down
there. He felt a sudden contempt for him-
self which braced him up. He went on, but

307

Tales of Unrest

at the door of their room and with his arm
advanced to open it, he faltered. On the
flight of stairs below the head of the girl who
had been locking up appeared. His arm
fell. He thought, "111 wait tffl she is
gone" — and stepped back within the per-
pendicular folds of a portHre.

He saw her come up gradually, as if
ascending from a well. At every step
the feeble flame of the candle swayed
before her tired, young face, and the
darkness of the hall seemed to cling to
her black skirt, followed her, rising like
a silent flood, as though the great night
of the world had broken through the
discreet reserve of walls, of closed doors,
of curtained windows. It rose over the
steps, it leaped up the walls like an angry
wave, it flowed over the blue skies, over
the yellow sands, over the sunshine of land-
scapes, and over the pretty pathos of ragged
innocence and of meek starvation. It swal-
lowed up the delicious idyll in a boat and the
mutilated immortality of famous bas-reliefs.
It flowed from outside — ^it rose higher, in
a destructive silence. And, above it, the

308

The Return

woman of marble, composed and blind on
the high pedestal, seemed to ward off the
devouring night with a cluster of lights.

He watched the rising tide of impenetra-
ble gloom with impatience, as if anxious for
the coming of a darkness black enough to
conceal a shameful surrender. It came
nearer. The cluster of lights went out.
The girl ascended facing him. Behind her
the shadow of a colossal woman danced
lightly on the wall. He held his breath
while she passed by, noiseless and with
heavy eyelids. And on her track the flow-
ing tide of a tenebrous sea filled the house,
seemed to swirl about his feet, and rising
unchecked, closed silently above his head.

The time had come but he did not open
the door. All was still; and instead of sur^
rendering to the reasonable exigencies of
life he stepped out, with a rebelling heart,
into the darkness of the house. It was the
abode of an impenetrable night; as though
indeed the last day had come and gone,
leaving him alone in a darkness that has no
to-morrow. And looming vaguely below
the won^n of marble, livid and still like a

309

Tales of Unrest

patient phantom, held out in the night a
cluster of extinguished lights.

His obedient thought traced for him the
image of an uninterrupted life, the dignity
and the advantages of an uninterrupted
success ; while his rebellious heart beat
violently within his breast, as if maddened
by the desire of a certitude immaterial and
precious — ^the certitude of love and faith.
What of the night within his dwelling if out-
side he could find the sunshine in which
men sow, in which men reap! Nobody
would know. The days, the years would
pass, and • . • He remembered that he had
loved her. The years would pass . • • And
then he thought of her as we think of the
dead — ^in a tender immensity of regret, in
a passionate longing for the return of ideal-
ised perfections. He had loved her — he
had loved her — and he never knew the
truth. • . . The years would pass in the
anguish of doubt. . . . He remembered her
smile, her eyes, her voice, her silence, as
though he had lost her for ever. The years
would pass and he would always mistrust
her smile, susp^ her eyes : he would always

310

The Return

misbelieve her voice, he would never have
faith in her silence. She had no gift — ^she
had no gift! What was she? Who was
she? . . . The years would pass; the mem-
ory of this hour would grow faint — ^and she
would share the material serenity of an un-
blemished life. She had no love and no
faith for any one. To give her your
thought, your belief, was like whisper-
ing your confession over the edge of the
world. Nothing came back — ^not even an
echo.

In the pain of that thought was bom his
conscience; not that fear of remorse which
grows slowly, and slowly decays amongst
the complicated facts of life, but a Divine
wisdom springing full-grown, armed and
severe out of a tried heart, to combat the
secret baseness of motives. It came to him
in a flash that morality is not a method of
happiness. The revelation was terrible. He
saw at once that nothing of what he knew
mattered in the least. The acts of men and
women, success, humiliation, dignity, failure
—nothing mattered. It was not a question
of more or less pain, of this joy, of that sor-

311

Tales of Unrest

row. It was a question of truth or false*
hood — ^it was a question of life or death.

He stood in the revealing night — ^in the
darkness that tries the hearts, in the night
useless for the work of men, but in which
their gaze, undazzled by the sunshine of
covetous days, wanders sometimes as far
as the stars. The perfect stillness around
him had something solemn in it, but he felt
it was the lying solemnity of a temple de-
voted to the rites of a debasing persuasion.
The silence within the discreet walls was
eloquent of safety but it appeared to him
exciting and sinister, like the discretion of
a profitable infamy; it was the prudent peace
of a den of coiners — of a house of ill-
fame I The years would pass — ^and nobody*
would know. Never! Not till death — not
after. * • •

" Never I " he said aloud to the revealing
night.

And he hesitated. The 'secret of hearts,
too terrible for the timid eyes of men, shall
return, veiled for ever, to the Inscrutable
Creator of good and evil, to the Master of
doubts and impulses. His conscience was

312

The Return

bom — he heard its voice, and he hesitated,
ignoring the strength within, the fateful
power, the secret of his heart! It was an
awful sacrifice to cast all one's life into the
flame of a new belief. He wanted help
against himself, against the cruel decree of
salvation. The need of tacit complicity,
where it had never failed him, the habit of
years affirmed itself. Perhaps she would
help. ... He flung the door open and
rushed in like a fugitive.

He was in the middle of the room before
he could see anything but the dazzling brill^
iance of the light; and then, as if detached
and floating in it on the level of his eyes,
appeared the head of a woman. She had
jumped up when he burst into the room.

For a moment they contemplated each
other as if struck dumb with ar^azement.
Her hair streaming on her shoulders glinted
like burnished gold. He looked into the
unfathomable candour of her eyes. Noth-
ing within — nothing — nothing.

He stammered distractedly.

**I want ... I want . . . to . • • to
• • • know. • • •

313

Talcs ci Unrest

On die candid light of the eyeis flitted
shidows; shadows of doubt, of suspicion,
the ready suspicion of an unquenchable
antagomsm, the pitiless mistrust of an
eternal instinct of defence; the hate, the
profound, frightened hate of an incompre-
hensible—of an abominable emotion intrudr
ing its coarse materialism upon the spiritual
and tragic contest of her feelings.

** Alvan ... I won't bear this . . J* She
began to pant suddenly, ^ I Ve a right — a
right to— to— myself. . . ."

He lifted one arm, and appeared so
menacing that she stopped in a fright and
shrank back a little.

He stood with uplifted hand. • • . The
years would pass — and he would have to
five with that unfathomable candour where
flit shadows of suspicion and hate. . • .
The years would pass — and he would never
know — ^ncver trust. . . . The years would
pass without faith and love. . . •

"Can you stand it?** he shouted, as
though she could have heard all his
thoughts.

He loolceSf menacing. She thought of

The Return

iriolence, of danger — and, just for an instant,
she doubted whether there were splendours
enough on earth to pay the price of such a
brutal experience. He cried again:

" Can you stand it? " and glared as if in-
sane. Her eyes blazed too. She could not
hear the appalling clamour of his thoughts.
She suspected in him a sudden regret, a
fresh fit of jealousy, a dishonest desire of
evasion. She shouted back angrily —

"Yes!"

He was shaken where he stood as if by a
struggle to break out of invisible bonds.
She trembled from head to foot.

" Well, I can't ! " He flung both his arms
out, as if to push her away, and strode from
the room. The door swung to with a click.
She made three quick steps towards it and
stood still, looking at the white and gold
panels. No sound came from beyond, not
a whisper, not a sigh; not even a footstep
was heard outside on the thick carpet. It
was as though no sooner gone he had sud-
denly expired — as though he had died there
and his body had vanished on the instant to*
gether with his soul. She listened, witK

Talcs of Unrest

parted lips and irresolute eyes. Then below,
far below her, as if in the entrails of the
earth, a door slammed heavily; and the quiet
house vibrated to it from roof to founda-
tions, more than to a clap of thunder.
He never returned

s>«

The Lagooa

The Lagoon

TPHE white man, leaning with both arms
over the roof of the little house in the
stern of the boat, said to the steersman —

" We will pass the night in Arsat's clear-
ing. It is late."

The Malay only grunted, and went on
looking fixedly at the river. The white man
rested his chin on his crossed arms and
gazed at the wake of the boat. At the end
of the straight avenue of forests cut by the
intense glitter of the river, the sun appeared
unclouded and dazzling, poised low over the
water that shone smoothly like a band of
metal. The forests, sombre and dull, stood
motionless and silent on each side of the
broad stream. At the foot of big, towering
trees, trunkless nipa palms rose from the
mud of the bank, in bunches of leaves enor-
mous and heavy, that hung unstirring over
the brown 9wirl of eddies. In the stillness

Tales of Unrest

of the air every tree, every leaf, every bough,
every tendril of creeper and every petal of
minute blossoms seemed to have been be-
witched into an immobility perfect and final.
Nothing moved on the river but the eight
paddles that rose flashing regularly, dipped
together with a single splash; while the
steersman swept right and left with a
periodic and sudden flourish of his blade
describing a glinting semicircle above his
head. The chumed-up water frothed along-
side with a confused murmur. And the
white man's canoe, advancing up stream in
the short-lived disturbance of its own
making, seemed to enter the portals of a'^
land from which the very memory of motion J
had for ever departed. '^

The white man, turning his back upon the
setting sun, looked along the empty and
broad expanse of the sea-reach. For the
last three miles of its course the wandering,
hesitating river, as if enticed irresistibly by
the freedom of an open horizon, flows
straight into the sea, flows straight to
the east — ^to the east that harbours both
light and darkness. Astern of the boat

3»o

The Lagoon

the repeated call of some bird, a cry dis-
cordant and feeble, skipped along over the
smooth water and lost itself, before it could
reach the other shore, in the breathless si-
lence of the world.

The steersman dug his paddle into the
stream, and held hard with stiffened arms,
his body thrown forward. The water gur-
gled aloud ; and suddenly the long straight
reach seemed to pivot on its centre, the for-
ests swung in a semicircle, and the slanting
beams of sunset touched the broadside of
the canoe with a fiery glow, throwing the
slender and distorted shadows of its crew
upon the streaked glitter of the river. The
white man turned to look ahead. The
course of the boat had been altered at right-
angles to the stream, and the carved dragon-
head of its prow was pointing now at a gap
in the fringing bushes of the bank. It
glided through, brushing the overhanging
twigs, and disappeared from the river like
some slim and amphibious creature leaving
the water for its lair in the forests.

The narrow creek was like a ditch: tor-
tuous, fabulously deep; filled with gloom
u 321

Tales of Unrest

onder the thin strip of pure and shining blue
of the heaven. Immense trees soared up,
invisible behind the festooned draperies of
creepers. Here and there, near the glisten-
ing blackness of the water, a twisted root of
some tall tree showed amongst the tracery
of small ferns, black and dull, writhing and
motionless, like an arrested snake. The
short words of the paddlers reverberated
loudly between the thick and sombre walls
/ of vegetation. Darkness oozed out from
/ between the trees, through the tangled maze

/ of the creepers, from behind the great fan-

i tastic and unstirring leaves; the darkness,

mysterious and invincible ; the darkness

scented and poisonous of impenetrable

forests.

The men poled in the shoaling water.
The creek broadened, opening out into a
wide sweep of a stagnant lagoon. The
forests receded from the marshy bank, leav*
ing a level strip of bright green, reedy grass
to frame the reflected blueness of the sky.
A fleecy pink cloud drifted high above, trail-
ing the delicate colouring of its image under
the floating leaves and the silvery blossoms

333

The Lagoon

of the lotus. A little house, perched on
high piles, appeared black in the distance.
Near it, two tall nibong palms, that seemed
to have come out of the forests in the back-
ground, leaned "slightly over the ragged
roof, with a suggestion of sad tenderness
and care in the droop of their leafy and
soaring heads.

The steersman, pointing with his paddle,
said, ** Arsat is there. I see his canoe fast
between the piles."

The polers ran along the sides of the boat
glancing over their shoulders at the end of
the day's journey. They would have pre-
ferred to spend the night somewhere else
than on this lagoon of weird aspect and
ghostly reputation. Moreover, they disliked
Arsat, first as a stranger, and also because
be who repairs a ruined house, and dwells
•in it, proclaims that he is not afraid to live
amongst the spirits that haunt/the places
^bandoQed by mankind. Such a man can
disturb the course of fate by glances or
csrords; while his familiar ghosts are not easy
to propitiate by casual wayfarers upon
whom they long to wreak the malice of their

S«3

Mli

Tales of Unrest

human master. White men care not for
such things, being unbelievers and in league
with the Father of Evil, who leads them un-
harmed through the invisible dangers of this
world. To the warnings of the righteous
they oppose an offensive pretence of dis-
belief. What is there to be done?

So they thought, throwing their weight
on the end of their long poles. The big
canoe glided on swiftly, noiselessly, and
smoothly, towards Arsat's clearing, till, in
a great rattling of poles thrown down, and
the loud murmurs of "Allah be praised I "
it came with a gentle knock against the
crooked piles below the house.

The boatmen with uplifted faces shouted
discordantly, "Arsat! OArsat!" Nobody
came. The white man began to climb the
rude ladder giving access to the bamboo
platform before the house. The juragan of
the boat said sulkily, " We will cook in the
sampan, and sleep on the water."

" Pass my blankets and the basket," said
the white man curtly.

He knelt on the edge of the platform to
receive the bundle. Then the boat shoved

324

(

The Lagoon

off, and the white man, standing up, con-
fronted Arsat, who had come out through
the low door of his hut. He was a man
young, powerful, with a broad chest and
muscular arms. He had nothing on but his
sarong. His head was bare. His big, soft
eyes stared eagerly at the white man, but
his voice and demeanour were composed as
he asked, without any words of greeting —

" Have you medicine, Tuan? "

" No," said the visitor in a startled tone,
" No. Why? Is there sickness in the
house? "

"Enter and see," replied Arsat, in the
same calm manner, and turning short round,
passed again through the small doorway.
The white man, dropping his bundles, fol-
lowed, i

In the dim light of the dwelling he
made out on a couch of bamboos a woman
stretched on her back under a broad sheet
of red cotton cloth. She lay still, as if
dead ; but her big eyes, wide open, glittered
in the gloom, staring upwards at the slender
rafters, motionless and unseeing. She was
in a high fever, and evidently unconscious.

32s

Tales of Unrest

Her cheeks were sunk slightly, her lips were
partly open, and on the young iace there was
the ominous and fixed expression — the
absorbed, contemplating expression of the
unconscious who are going to die. The
two men stood looking down at lier in
sUence.

** Has she been long ill? '' asked the trav-
eller,

^' I have not slept for five mghts,** an-
swered the Malay, in a deliberate tone. " At
first she heard Voices calling her from the
water and struggled against me who held
her. But since the sun of to-day rose she
hears nothing — ^shc hears not me. She sees
nothing. She sees not me — ^me! "

He remained silent for a minute, then
asked softly —

" Tuan, will she die? "

** I fear so," said the white man sorrow-
fully. He had known Arsat years ago, in a
far country in times of trouble and danger,
when no friendship is to be despised. And
since his Malay friend had come unexpe(^-
edly to dwell in the hut on the lagoon with
a strange woman, he had slept many times

326

The Lagoon

there, in his journeys up and down the river.
He liked the man who knew how to keep
faith in council and how to fight without
fear by the side of his white friend. He
liked him — ^not do much perhaps as a man
likes his favourite dog — ^but still he liked
him well enough to help and ask no ques-
tions, to think sometimes vaguely and hazily
in the midst of his own pursuits, about the
lonely man and the long-haired woman with
audacious face and triumphant eyes, who
lived together hidden by the forests — alone
and feared. ^

The white man came out of the hut in
time to see the enormous conflagration of
sunset put out by the swift and stealthy
shadows that, rising like a black and im-
palpable vapour above the tree-tops, spread
over the heaven, extinguishing the crimson
glow of floating clouds and the red brill-
iance of departing daylight. In a few
moments all the stars came out above the
intense blackness of the earth, and the
great lagoon gleaming suddenly with re-
flected lights resembled an oval patch of
night sky flung down into the hopeless and

jar

laai

Tales of Unrest

abysmal night of the wilderness. The white
man had some supper out of the basket, then
collecting a few sticks that lay about the
platform, made up a small fire, not for
warmth, but for the sake of the smoke,
which would keep off the mbsquitos. He
wrapped himself in his blankets and sat with
his back against the reed wall of the house,
smoking thoughtfully.

Arsat came through the doorway ^ith
noiseless steps and squatted down by the
fire. The white man moved his outstretched
legs a little.

" She breathes," said Arsat in a low voice,
anticipating the expected question. " She
breathes and burns as if with a great fire.
She speaks not; she hears not — ^and burns! "

He paused for a moment, then asked in a
quiet, incurious tone —

" Tuan . . . will she die? "

The white man moved his shoulders
uneasily, and muttered in a hesitating
manner —

" If such is her fate."

" No, Tuan," said Arsat calmly. " If sucH
is my fate. I hear, I see, I wait. I remem-

328

■ (M^«ta

The Lagoon

bcr . . . Tuan, do you remember the old
days? Do you remember my brother? '*

" Yes," said the white man. The Malay
rose suddenly and went in. The other, sit-
ting still outside, could hear the voice in the
hut. Arsat said: "Hear me! Speak I"
His words were succeeded by a complete
silence. " O DiamelenI " he cried suddenly.
After that cry there was a deep sigh. Arsat
came out and sank down again in his old
place.

They sat in silence before the fire. There
was no sound within the house, there was
no sound near them; but far away on the
lagoon they could hear the voices of the
boatmen ringing fitful and distinct on the
calm water. The fire in the bows of
the sampan shone faintly in the distance
with a hazy red glow. Then it died out.
The voices ceased. The land and the water
slept invisible, unstirring and mute. It was
as though there had been nothing left in the
world but the glitter of stars streaming,
ceaseless and vain, through the black still-
ness of the night.

The white man gazed straight before him

3^9

^ ^ p^^k^te*

«■

Tales of Unrest

into the darkness with wide-open eyes. The
fear and fascination, the inspiration and the
wonder of death— of death near, unavoid-
able! and unseen, soothed the unrest of his
race and stirred the most indistinct, the most

j: intimate of his thoughts. The ever-ready
suspicion of evil, the gnawing suspicion that
lurks in our hearts, flowed out into the still-

/ ness round him — ^into the stillness profound
and dumb, and made it appear untrust-
worthy and infamous, like the placid and im-
penetrable mask of an unjustifiable violence.
In that fleeting and powerful disturbance of
his Keing the earth enfolded in the starlight
peace became a shadowy country of inhu-
man strife, a battlefield of phantoms terrible
and channing,august or ignoble, struggling
ardently for the possession of our helpless
hearts. An unquiet and mysterious coun-
try of inextinguishable desires and fears.

A plaintive murmur rose in the night; a
murmur saddening and startling, as if the
great solitudes of surrounding woods had
tried to whisper into his ear the wisdom
of their immense and lofty indifference.
Sounds hesitating and vague floated in the

330

The Lsigoon

9ar round him, shaped themsdves slowly
into words ; and at last flowed on gently 'm
a murmuring stream of soft and monot-
onous sentences. He stirred like a man
waking up and changed his position slightly.
Arsat, motionless and shadowy, sitting widi
bowed head under the stars^ was speaking
in a low and dreamy tone —

". . . for where can we lay down the
heaviness of our trouble but in a friend's
heart? A man must speak of war and of
love. You, Tuan, know what war is, and
you have seen me in time of danger seek
death as other men seek life! A writing
may be lost; a lie may be written; but what
the ejre has seen is truth and remains in the
mind!''

''I remember,** sidd the white man
quietly. Arsat went on with mournful-
composure —

** Therefore I shall speak to you of love.
Speak in the night Speak before both
night and love are gone — and the eye of
day looks upon my sorrow and my shame;
upon my blackened face; upon my btumt-up
heart.**

3St

Tales of Unrest

A sigh, short and faint, marked an almost
imperceptible pause, and then his words
flowed on, without a stir, without a gesture.

" After the time of trouble and war was
over and you went away fr(»n my country
in the pursuit of your de^res, which we,
men of the islands, cannot understand, I and
my brother became again, as we bad been
before, the sword-bearers of the Ruler. You
know we were men of family, belonging to
a ruling race, and more fit than any to cany
on our right shoulder the emblem of power.
And in the time of prosperity Si Dendring
showed us favour, as we, in time of sorrow,
had showed to him the faithfulness of our
courage. It was a time of peace A time
of deer-hunts and cock-fights; of Idle talks
and foolish squabbles between men whose
bellies are full and weapons are rusty. But
the sower watched the young rice-shoots
grow up without fear, and the traders came
and went, departed lean and returned fat
into the river of peace. They brought news
too. Brought lies and truth mixed together,
so that no man knew when to rejoice and
when to be sorry. We heard frotn them
33»

The Lagoon

about you also. They had seen you here
and had seen you there. And I was glad to
hear, for I remembered the stirring times,
and I always remembered you, Tuan, till the
time came when my eyes could see nothing
in the past, because they had looked upon
the one who is dying there — ^In the house.'*

He stopped to exclaim in an intense,
whisper, " O Mara bahial O Calamity! "
then went on speaking a little louder.

" There's no worse enemy and no better
friend than a brother, Tuan, for one brother
knows another, and in perfect knowledge
is strength for good or evil. I loved my
brother. I went to him and told him that
I could see nothing but one face, hear noth-
ing but one voice. He told me : ' Open
your heart so that she can see what is in it —
and wait. Patience is wisdom. Inchi
Midah may die or our Ruler may throw off
his fear of a woman!' ... I waited! . . .
You remember the lady with the veiled face,
Tuan, and the fear of our Ruler before her
cunning and temper. And if she wanted
her servant, what could I do? But I fed
the hunger of my heart on short glances and

333

■ III ir n^i— »M

Talcs of Unrest

stealthy words. I loitered on the path to
the bath-houses in the da3rtime9 and when
the sun had fallen behind the forest I crept
along the jasmine hedges of the women's
courtyard. Unseeing, we spoke to one
another through the scent of flowers,
through the veil of leaves, through the
blades of long grass that stood still before
our lips; so great was our prudence, so
faint was the murmur of our great longing.
The time passed swiftly . • • and there
were whispers amongst women — and our
enemies watched — ^my brother was gloomy,
and I began to think of killing and of a
fierce death* • . • We are of a peopie who
take what they want — ^like you whites.
There is a time when a man should forget
loyalty and respect ' Might and authority
are given to rulers, but to all men is given
love and strength and courage. My brother
said, ' You shall take her from their midst
We are two who are like one.' And I an-
swered, * Let it be soon, for I find no warmth
in sunlight that does not shine upon her.'
Our time came when the Ruler and all die

great people went to the mouth of the river

334

The Lagoon

to fish by t<M*chlight. There were hundreds

of boats, and on the white sand, between the

water and the forests, dwellings of leaves

were built for the househcrfds of the Rajahs.

/The smoke of cooking-fires was like a blue

\ mist of the evening, and many voices rang

\in it joyfully. While they were making the

boats ready to beat up the fish, my brother

came to me and said, ' To-night! ' I looked

to my weapons, and when the time came

our canoe took its place in the circle of boats

carrying the torches. The lights blazed on

the water, but behind the boats there was

darkness. When the shouting began and
the excitement made them like mad we
dropped out. The water swallowed our fii^, |
and we floated back to the shore that was
dark with only here and there the glimmer
of embers. We could hear the talk of slave-
girls amongst the sheds. Then we found a
place deserted and silent. We waited there.
She came. She came running along the
shore, rapid and leaving no trace, like a leaf
driven by the wind into the sea. My brother
said gloomily, ' Go and take her; carry her
into our boat' I lifted her in my arms*

335

Tales of Unrest

She panted Her heart was beating against
my breast I said, * I take you from those
people. You came to the cry of my heart,
but my arms take you into my boat against
the will of the great! ' ' It is right/ said my
brother. * We are men who take what we
want and can hold it against many. We
should have taken her in daylight.' I said»
^ Let us be off ' ; for since she was in my
boat I began to think of our Ruler's
many men. 'Yes. Let us be off/ said
my brother. 'We are cast out and this
boat is our country now — ^and the sea is
our refuge.' He lingered with his foot on
the shore, and I entreated him to hasten, for
I remembered the strokes of her heart
against my breast and thought that two men
cannot withstand a hundred. We left, pad-
dling downstream close to the bank; and as
we passed by the creek where they were
fishing, the great shouting had ceased, but
the murmur of voices was loud like the
humming of insects flying at noonday. The^
boats floated, clustered together, in the red
light of torches, under a black roof of ^
smoke ; and men talked of their sport Men

336

\ i

The Lagoon

that boasted, and praised, and jeered-Huen
that would have been our friends in the
morning, but cm that night were already
our enemies. We paddled swiftly past We
had no more friends in the country of our
birth. She sat in the middle of the canoe
with covered face; silent as she is now; un-
seeing as she is now — and I had no regret
at what I was leaving because I could hear
her breathing dose to me — as I can hear
her now."

He paused, listened with his ear turned to
the doorway, then shook his head and went
on.

** My brother wanted to shout the cry of
challenge— one cry only — to let the peo-
ple know we were freebom robbers who
trusted our anils and the great sea. And
again I begged him in the name of our love
to be silent. Could I not hear her breathing
close to me? I knew the pursuit would
come quick enough. My brother loved me.
He dipped his paddle without a splash. He
only said, ' There is half a man in you now—
the other half is in that woman. I can wait.
When you are a whole man again, you will
tt 337

Tales of Unrest

cone back with me here to shout defiancCi
We are sons of the same mother/ I made
no answer. AH my strength and all my
spirit were in my hands that held the paddle
— for I longed to be with her in a safe place
beyond the reach of men's anger and of
women's spite. My love was so great» that
I thought it could guide me to a country
where death was unknown, if I could only
escape from Inchi Midah's fury and from
our Ruler's sword. We paddled with haste,
breathing through our teeth. The blades
bit deep into the smooth water. We passed
out of the river; we flew in clear channels
amongst the shallows. We skirted Ae
black coast; we skirted the sand beaches
where the sea speaks in whispers to the
land; and the gleam of white sand flashed
back past our boat, so swiftly she ran upon
the water. We spoke not Only once I
said, ' Sleep, Diamelen, for soon you may
want all your strength.' I heard the sweet-
ness of her vcMce, but I never turned my
head. The sun rose and still we went on.
Water fell from my face like rain from a
dood We flew in the light and heat I

S}8

The Lagoon

never looked back, but I knew that
brother's eyes, behind me, were looking
steadily ahead, for the boat went as straight
as a bushman's dart, when it leaves the end
of the sumpitan. There was no better
paddler, no better steersman than my
brother. Many times, together, we had
won races in that canoe. But we never
had put out our strength as we did then —
then, when for the last time we paddled
together I There was no braver or stronger
man in our country than my brother. I
could not spare the strength to turn my
head and look at him, but every moment I
heard the hiss of his breath getting louder
behind me. Still he did not speak. The
sun was high. The heat clung to my back
like a flame of fire. My ribs were ready to
burst, but I could no longer get enough air
into my chest And then I felt I must cry
out with my last breath, ' Let us restf ' . . •
'Good I' he answered; and his voice was
firm. He was strong. He was brave. He
knew not fear and no fatigue • • « My
brotherl "
A murmur powerful and gentle, a imir*

339

k
\

Tales of Unrest

mur vast and faint ; the murmur of trembling
leaves, of stirring boughs, ran through the
tangled depths of the forests, ran over the
starry smoothness of the^lagocMi, and the
water between the piles lapped the slimy
timber once with a sudden splash. A
breath of warm air touched the two men's
faces and passed on with a mournful sound
— ^a breath loud and short like an uneasy
sigh of the dreaming earth.
Arsat went on in an even, low voice:
" We ran our canoe on the white beach of
a little bay close to a long tongue of land
that seemed to bar our road; a long wooded
cape going far into the sea. My brother
knew that place. Beyond the cape a river
has its entrance, and through the jungle of
that land there is a narrow path. We made
a fire and cooked rice. Then we lay down
to sleep on the soft sand in the shade of our
canoe, while she watched. No sooner had
I closed my eyes than I heard her cry of
alarm. We leaped up. The sun was half-
way down the sky already, and coming in
sight in the opening of the bay we saw a
prau manned by many paddlers. We knew

340

The Lagoon

it at once; it was one of our Rajah's praus.
They were watching the shore, and saw us.
They beat the gong, and turned the head of
the prau into the bay. I felt my heart be-
come weak within my breast. Diamelen
sat on the sand and covered her face. There
was no escape by sea. My brother laughed.
He had the gun you had given him, Tuan,
before you went away, but there was only
a handful of powder. He spoke to me
quickly: ' Run with her along the path. I
shall keep them back, for they have no fire-
arms, and landing in the face of a man with
a gun is certain death for some. Run with
her. On th^ other side of that wood there
is a fisherman's house — ^and a canoe. When
I have fired all the shots I will follow. I
am a great runner, and before they can come
up we shall be gone. I will hold out as
long as I can, for she is but a woman — ^that
can neither run nor fight, but she has your
heart in her weak hands/ He dropped be-
hind the canoe. The prau was coming.
She and I ran, and as we rushed along the
path I heard shots. My brother fired —
oace--twice — and the booming of the gong

341

lii.**

Talcs of Unrest

ceased There was silence behind us. That
neck of land is narrow. Before I heard my
brother fire the third shot I saw the shelving
shore, and I saw the water again: the mouth
of a broad river^ We crossed a grassy
glade* We ran down to the water. I saw
a low hut above the black mud, and a small
canoe hauled up. I heard another shot be-
hind me. I thought, 'That is his last
charge.' We rushed down to the canoe; a
man came running from the hut, but I
leaped on him, and we rolled together in
the mud. Then I got up, and he lay still
at my feet. I don't know whether I had
killed him or not. I and Diamelen pushed
the canoe afloat. I heard yells behind me,
and I saw my brother run across the glade.
Many men were bounding after him. I
took her in my arms and threw her into the
boat, then leaped in mysel f . When I looked
back I saw that my brother had fallen. He
fell and was up again, but the men were
closing round him. He shouted, 'I am com-
ing!' The men were close to him. I looked.
Many men. Then I looked at her. Tuan,
I pushed the canoe! I pushed it into deep

34a

The Lagoon

water. She was kneeling forward lookmg
at me, and I said, * Take your paddle,' while
I struck the water with mine. Tuan, I heard
him cry. I heard him cry my name twice;
and I heard voices shouting, * Kill ! Strike ! '
I never turned back. I heard him calling
my name again with a great shriek, as when
life is going out together with the voice —
and I never turned my head. My own
name! . . . My brother! Three times he
called — ^but I was not afraid of life. Was
she not there in that canoe? And couj
not with her find^ country where death_is
forgotten-^where death is unknown! "

The white man sat up. Arsat rose and
stood, an indistinct and silent figure above
the dying embers of the fire. Over the
lagoon a mist drifting and low had crept,
erasing slowly the glittering images of the
stars. And now a great expanse of white
vapour covered the land : it flowed cold and
grey in the darkness, eddied in noiseless
whirls round the tree-trunks and about the
platform of the house, which seemed to float
upon a restless and impalpable illusion of a
sea. Only far away the tops ,oi the trees

343

Talcs of Unrest

stood outlined on the twinkle of heaven, like
a sombre and forbidding shore — a coast de-
ceptive, pitiless and black.

Arsat's voice vibrated loudly in the pro-
found peace.

" I had her there! I had her! To get
her I would have faced all mankind. But I
had her — and "

His words went out ringing into the
empty distances. He paused, and seemed
to listen to them dying away very far —
beyond help and beyond recall. Then he
said quietly —

" Tuan, I loved my brother.''

A breath of wind made him shiver. High
above his head, high above the silent sea of
mist the drooping leaves of the palms
rattled together with a mournful and ex-
piring sound. The white man stretched his
legs. His chin rested on his chest, and he
murmured sadly without lifting his head—/;

" We all love o ur brothers." y^^^'^f3(^^S^£i^

Arsat burst out with an intense whisper-
ing violence —

'' What did I care who died? I wanted
peace in my own heart.'*

344

V
\

The Lagoon

He seemed to hear a stir in the house-—
listened — ^then stepped in noiselessly. The
white man stood up. A breeze was coming
in fitful puffs. The stars shone paler as if
they had retreated into the frozen depths of
immense space. After a chill gust of wind
there were a few seconds of perfect calm and
absolute silence. Then from behind the
black and wavy line of the forests a column
of golden light shot up into the heavens
and spread over the semi-circle of the
eastern horizon. The sun had risen. The
mist lifted, broke into drifting patches,
vanished into thin flying wreaths; and the
unveiled lagoon lay, polished and black, in
the heavy shadows at the foot of the wall of
trees. A white eagle rose over it with a
slanting and ponderous flight, reached the
clear sunshine and appeared dazzlingly brill-
iant for a moment, then soaring higher, be-
came a dark and motionless speck before it
vanished into the blue as if it had left the
earth for ever. The white man, standing
gazing upwards before the doorway, heard
in the hut a confused and broken murmur
of distracted words ending with a loud

345

_i* . — .*" *■

■■

Tales Unrest

•

white man, leaning with both arms over the
grass roof of the little cabin, looked back at
the shining ripple of the boat's wake. Be-
fore the sampan passed out of the lagoon
into the creek he lifted his eyes. Arsat had
not moved. He stood lonely in the search-
ing sunshine; and he looked beyond the
great light of a cloudless day into the dark-
ness of a world of illusions*

OCT 30 1920

Internet Archive Audio

Featured

Top

Images

Featured

Top

Software

Featured

Top

Texts

Featured

Top

Video

Featured

Top

Mobile Apps

Browser Extensions

Archive-It Subscription

Save Page Now

Full text of "Tales of Unrest"

See other formats